Remembering Aunt Mildred
by ChampionTheWonderSnail
Summary: Sometimes, what you leave behind is more difficult than accepting that you need to leave...A story of the Mage that didn't become a Grey Warden.
1. Leaving Home

A/N…just filling in the time until DA2 gets released (ho hum, ho hum). Characters and world are the property of Bioware, except for Aunt Mildred. _No one _owns her…

Thanks to _Roxfox1962_ for beta-ing. Well, if _you're _sure…

-oo-

**Remembering Aunt Mildred**

There were whispers in the shadows_…_Alyce made herself small. She was good at it, owing to fact that she _was _small, for her age or otherwise. People said it was because she was _elven_ and wouldn't grow up properly, but Alyce knew what elves looked like and she didn't look anything like the ones she'd seen. Her ears were round and so was her face. Her eyes did not look like rare gemstones, but were just an ordinary, everyday grey which wasn't even a colour at all, but a vague description for a 'colour' that couldn't make up its mind to be blue or green. As for her hair…'mouse brown' did not do for the scarecrow spikes that rested on her head. Mice were pewter-brown and satin-sleek. It was an insult to mice everywhere to make that kind of comparison.

Aunt Mildred had taught her that looks were not important anyway. It didn't matter what the package looked like – it was the quality of the contents inside that mattered. It was just the sort of thing Aunt Mildred would say, because Aunt Mildred's eyesight had never been particularly good. When Alyce had first arrived, Aunt Mildred told her that looking at her was like looking through a stained glass window. These days all Aunt Mildred could see were shadows if the sun was bright enough; but the sun hurt her eyes and the drapes were always drawn. Her room where her aunt sat during the day was dark and cool, even when the fire was in the grate. Alyce wasn't good at chopping wood, so they didn't always have firewood to burn and no one used coal out in the country. She'd heard up at the Big House they did, but Alyce doubted she'd ever get the opportunity to see how it worked exactly. She thought coal was stuff that had already been burned and couldn't burn anymore. Perhaps it was magic…

_Magic…_she was sure she had heard the adults mention the word. Whispered behind Aunt Mildred's wing-backed chair, as though the elderly woman could not hear, but there was nothing wrong with Aunt Mildred's hearing. It had taken quite a bit of willpower on Alyce's part _not _to leap out and tell these people that a woman who claimed to be able to hear her cabbages being attacked by caterpillars at night would have no problem hearing ill-concealed voices barely two feet away. No, Alyce had held her tongue, remaining hidden under Aunt Mildred's china table, the barest tick of the cane held in still-young hands acknowledgement that her aunt knew she was there.

"…_sent away…_" The voices continued to talk in hushed tones. Alyce idly plucked at a frayed edge of the rug, catching only snippets of conversation because her hearing wasn't as good as Aunt Mildred's. She heard "It's not right…" and "She's a danger to the old woman…" But who was a danger to whom? And then the worst: _"…it's the elven blood…The elven blood that's made her go bad…" _

Aunt Mildred snorted in disdain, rapping her cane onto the wooden floor for attention.

"You people intend to stay here all day gossiping in my sitting room?" she demanded.

"We were just discussing the best option, Ms Amell," one of the women said in a wheedling, whining voice – the sort of voice that folk automatically used to address people above a certain age. Alyce could _feel _Aunt Mildred bristle.

"Best for _whom?_" She heard her aunt ask with a carefully measured dose of contempt. The cane came down hard on the floor. If it had struck stone, not wood, there would have been sparks. "If you people have nothing more to say to me, I'd like my sitting room and my _air _back, thank you."

Alyce clapped a hand over her mouth in time, stifling laughter that would have given her away.

"We will return."

The voice no longer held the pretence of courtesy and Alyce couldn't help shaking her head at that. If Aunt Mildred's visitors had not tried to 'be kind to the old woman', Aunt Mildred wouldn't have been forced to be _Aunt Mildred_ at them.

After they had gone, Alyce crept out from under the table, placing herself on the red ottoman that stood always by the wing backed chair. It looked like a mushroom; and Alyce like a spiky-haired gnome on the top of it.

"What did they want, Aunt Mildred?" Alyce asked.

Her aunt snorted her opinion of her visitors, adding, "Chantry _puppets_," she spat. "Except you can sometimes count on a puppet being mildly amusing. Wouldn't know a joke if it leapt out of the ground and bit them on the…well, you know what I mean," she sighed. Her hand reached out, finding the top of her head unerringly. "You're a _gift, _child," she said in a voice both soft as feather down and hard as stone. "What you _have_ is a gift. Don't you let some Chantry snake attempt to convince you otherwise."

Alyce frowned at her aunt. She had no idea what Aunt Mildred had meant, but she had been taught to be obedient, so she replied, "Yes Aunt Mildred," and then returned to the kitchen to prepare for their afternoon tea.

A week later, the Templars arrived in their big, shiny armour with Andraste's sword burning on their breasts. Alyce had seen knights before; in and around Highever, but the Templars were not the Teyrn's knights or the King's knights. _These_ were Knights of the Prophet Andraste. Aunt Mildred could not have cared less; a man in a metal suit was a man in a metal suit and was just as likely to be in as much trouble as a washing bucket in a thunder storm.

Alyce thought she had never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

She made tea for them all; these large men looking awkward holding rose print tea cups smaller than their gauntleted hands, nibbling on shortbread and staring at the slices of lemon in confusion. Aunt Mildred never allowed tea to be served with cream. It was far too Orlesian.

"Have you spoken to the child?" one of the Templars asked Aunt Mildred, who raised her cane like a lance, preparing to charge.

"The 'child' is right here, _Ser _Greagoir," Aunt Mildred snapped. "You can tell her yourself."

"She has not been prepared?" This Ser Greagoir exchanged a look with the other Templars.

"If I had my way, she'd stay," Aunt Mildred sniffed. "There's nothing wrong with my niece."

"All mages _must_ be trained," Ser Greagoir began, to be cut off abruptly by Aunt Mildred's cane striking the ground.

"Leashed, you mean!" she snapped angrily. "Strip the sugar off it, young man. I may not be in the prime of my youth, but my brain still works well enough. I know what you people did to my brother's wife. I'd be a cold-hearted fool to let the same thing happen to my last living relative!"

Alyce could feel the Templar's eyes on her, but she only had eyes for Aunt Mildred. She had never seen her aunt so angry and upset before and instinctively, she reached out for her aunt's hand, finding her own being gripped in a vice-like hold. Alyce was young, but she was not so young that she couldn't understand fear when it radiated so intensely from someone she knew as well as Aunt Mildred.

"She will be taught how to control her magic," Ser Greagoir told her aunt. "Would you risk her turning abomination? At the Tower she will be surrounded by her own kind; she will be looked after."

"_Bollocks!_" Aunt Mildred seethed, gripping Alyce's hand so tightly it brought tears to the girl's eyes. "You call it what you want. A prison's a prison, no matter how many flowers you plant around it!"

"Ms Amell," Ser Greagoir began in the same, wheedling voice that the foolish woman had used on her aunt a week ago. "Please, try and be reasonable…"

"Reasonable!" The cane came up in an arc, sweeping the tea things from the table. It happened so quickly, no one had time to comprehend what was happening; the tea and tray of shortbread froze midair. Alyce extended her hand and plucked the teapot out of the air, placing it gently out of reach of Aunt Mildred's cane. The tray of shortbread soon joined it. When she turned back, Aunt Mildred was shaking her head. Blind or not, her aunt had known that what she had done had been _wrong…_

"No, no, no…foolish child…!" Alyce found herself being pulled forward, and enclosed in a bony embrace that smelled like cabbages and sweet roses. When next she spoke, her voice was once more itself; hard and unrelenting as she addressed the Templar.

"I know that we will be given no choice in the matter."

"I'm afraid…"

"You're not afraid!" Aunt Mildred snapped, releasing Alyce. "Don't pretend this isn't just your _job_ you're doing and that you actually _care…_" She sat back, her cane beating out a staccato of annoyance. "Hmph," she told the Templars. "What will she need to take with her?"

"She will be provided with everything she needs, Ms Amell," Ser Greagoir assured her.

"I doubt it," Aunt Mildred sniffed. "Well," she waved her cane towards Ser Greagoir. "If you're going to take her away, do it now and be done with it."

Alyce stared at her aunt, jaws agape. "Am I to be sent away?" she asked in a small voice.

"Apparently so, niece."

_Just like that?_ "Why?"

"Because the Chantry says you're a vile creature to be feared, girl; a danger to good, Maker-fearing Fereldans," her aunt told her, annoyance turning every word into ice chips of sound. Alyce began backing away, the backs of her knees bumping the edge of the low table, rattling the tea things. She shook her head, unable to understand. Then she looked into Aunt Mildred's pale, unseeing eyes and saw the pain there; the bitterness and the fear. _The Chantry says…_not _I say…_

"What are you all doing, standing around like a bunch of statues?" Aunt Mildred gouged a chip out of the floor as she glared at them all. "Take her to your prison!"

Ser Greagoir placed his cup and saucer carefully onto the table. Out of habit, Alyce began piling up the cups and plates for their trip to the kitchen's wash basin. She found a heavy hand on her shoulder and looked up into Mabari-brown eyes.

"We should leave now, as your Aunt commands," Ser Greagoir told her, eliciting a snort of scorn from the wing-backed chair.

"But…"

"Go now, niece," her Aunt told her. "Do as you're told, before I lose my temper."

Alyce half-smiled at her Aunt. Stretching up on tip toes, she kissed Aunt Mildred's powdered cheek. She found Ser Greagoir's hand on her shoulder again, this time directing her towards the sitting room door. They surrounded her; tall men enclosed in cold metal and swishing skirts of purple and gold, herding her out of her home, Aunt Mildred's disapproving features and tapping finger no longer visible. It was only once they were outside that she was able to look back. The cottage looked as it always did from the lane, with its overgrown garden and worn stone path. The drapes were drawn and all was silent, except for a lone raven, cawing in the elderly oak.

The Templars were unhitching their horses, preparing to leave. Alyce stared at her home, then tugged on Ser Greagoir's skirt.

He looked down on her, his expression unreadable.

"Yes?"

"Will I be able to come back?" she asked him.

"That would be for the Maker to decide," the Templar informed her.

"But who will make Aunt Mildred's dinner?" she persisted. "Who will pick up her cane when she drops it? Or help her up the stairs to her bed?" She gave him a fierce look. "Who will look after her when I'm gone? Or makes sure she doesn't burn herself on the stove? I don't want the local peddlars to cheat her out of her gold" she said.

The Templar looked helplessly at his colleagues. "Perhaps…your neighbours?" he asked, uncertainly.

Alyce shook her head. If the nearest neighbours had ever thought of helping her Aunt Mildred, they would have done something by now, but they hadn't. "Then...I will…I will think of something," Ser Greagoir informed her.

"Promise?" Alyce asked him, hope burning in her grey eyes.

"I…" He shifted his gaze imploringly to the nearest Templar, who could only offer a shrug. "I promise I will try," he told her.


	2. Mages Smell Funny

-oo-

**Chapter 2 - Mages Smell Funny**

Horses…Alyce decided, _smelled_ funny. Her experience of equines to date were distant, slow-moving farm animals or elegant things of white china; sculpted muscle and flowing manes, hooves rearing midair, striking sparks into the wind…not repositories of excrement and urine. The first time she'd seen a horse relieve itself, she'd been almost hit by the arc of streaming, steaming liquid and she had as yet to scrape allof the _other_ stuff from the bottom of her boot. Horses sweated - and they bit and they complained all the time, huffing and puffing in indignation. Not that she could blame them. If _she _had to have a great big metal cage with a man in it riding on her back all day, she'd be pretty irritable too.

The horses weren't the only irritated ones. Even though Ser Greagoir allowed her to ride with him, he avoided her when they stopped to camp for the night. It _might _have had something to do with…

"Have you thought of something yet?"

She hadn't forgotten Ser Greagoir's promise. She intended to make him stand by it. He was a Knight of the Prophet Andraste. They weren't supposed to lie, or make empty promises, were they?

"I'm…still thinking…" the templar growled at her, but Alyce Amell was not afraid of his frowns and his short temper. In a way, he was a bit like a bearded Aunt Mildred and it made her feel like being at home, but with less china and more horse wee.

"You'll let me know when you think of something?" she persisted.

Ser Greagoir simply growled at her, but Alyce smiled and turned away, eager to find something to keep her busy. She found an old tree stump to sit upon and with a stick, worked away at the rest of the horse poo on the bottom of her boot. The stuff had dried on the bottom of the sole, but from the look of the sky, she knew it would rain soon. Rain meant lots of puddles to soak dried excrement in and then all she needed was a bit of grass and hoorah! Clean boots again.

Throwing the stick into the scrub behind her, Alyce looked about the camp. She spotted a kettle by the fire, picking it up and looking around. Over the sound of the snorting horses, the Templars talking in low voices and the call of morning birdlife, she could hear running water. _Just over there…_she deduced, turning towards the sound. She had barely made a few metres when one of the Templars stepped in front of her.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded. She held up the kettle as explanation.

"I'm going to fill this," she said.

"You are not to leave camp," the Templar snapped at her, giving her shoulder a shake.

"You don't want a cup of tea?" she asked. Everyone needed a cup of tea in the morning. Aunt Mildred wouldn't let anyone _speak _to her until after she'd had her first cup.

"Idiot child…!" he raised a hand to strike her, but another intervened. She found Ser Greagoir stepping between the Templar and herself.

"We do not hit children, Ser Alaric."

"This is not a child, Ser Greagoir," Ser Alaric replied self-righteously. "It's a _mage…_"

"_She _is not a mage until she undergoes her Harrowing," Ser Greagoir explained in a patient voice, as though addressing an idiot, hard of hearing. "Until then she is merely an apprentice. In the meantime, we Templars are to keep her safe." _Even from herself…_Alyce could hear the words in her head, even though Ser Greagoir didn't voice them. She'd always been good at hearing things others couldn't, even though she sometimes had to strain to hear conversations held outside the cottage front door.

Deep in thought, Alyce was startled when Ser Alaric snatched the kettle from her hand, armour clanking angrily as he strode off towards the source of water. Alyce switched her attention back to Ser Greagoir. Despite the heavy plate and the tall pauldrons, she could see Ser Greagoir's shoulders slump. When he turned to her, his face was grim. "It is as Ser Alaric says," he told her sternly. "You are not to stray from our sight. If you do so again, my men will think you are attempting to escape and will take measures."

_Measures_…Alyce turned the word over in her mind, wondering what reason the Templars could have to take her measurements. It seemed an odd thing to do, if they thought she was attempting to escape them. Perhaps they needed them for rope to tie her up with. She wanted to ask him, but there were more pressing concerns on her mind. As he turned to leave, she reached out for his hand.

"What!" he snapped at her; a sound that felt comforting and homey.

"Do you think Aunt Mildred is alright?" she asked, worry written in every dirt smear on her face. "Have you thought of something yet?"

Ser Greagoir sighed, rubbing at his temples as though he had a headache coming on. Alyce knew a good remedy for headache. It involved mint leaves and crushed lavender from the garden, but Aunt Mildred's useful garden was miles away now and she felt sorry for the Templar, if his head was beginning to hurt.

"Does your Aunt not have any other relatives living?" he sighed again.

Alyce shrugged. She'd heard of relatives living in the Free Marches, but she didn't know where. Aunt Mildred never really spoke of them as though they were close and she told him so, causing his peppery eyebrows to draw downwards. He looked even more exasperated and annoyed at her after this piece of information than before.

"So…" Alyce followed him towards the empty fire. "You'll think of something? For Aunt Mildred?"

Kicking at the remains of the fire, Ser Greagoir only glared.

-oo-

It was dark and raining by the time they reached the shores of Lake Calenhad; but not too late and stormy to cross the churning lake. The ferryman, Kester was chatty and friendly, despite the dark skies and the grey rain, handing Alyce a waxed paper bag to pick a couple of boiled sweets from. With one stuffed in each cheek, she found herself being herded onto the boat. Kester chatted to Ser Greagoir most of the way while Alyce crunched on her boiled sweets, leaning over the edge of the wide-bottomed boat. She almost choked on her mouthful of sugar shards when she caught sight of something dark moving in the water beneath them. It slithered under the hull; a long tentacled thing that broke the surface of the water briefly with a soundless splash. She looked back at the Templars, but no one seemed particular perturbed.

Perhaps they were used to strange things in the water, or perhaps they didn't care? The closer to the tower they travelled, the more at ease they became. When at last they were on the other side, the boat hitting a pylon bumped Alyce awake. Rough hands hauled her shivering, bedraggled form onto dry land. Confused by the rain and the darkness, Alyce stared blearily about her, stumbling tiredly up the stairs into the tower itself. It was colder inside than out and there was a strange smell in the air that tickled her nose; unfamiliar, disorienting and unpleasant.

The high stone walls were grand, just itching to be counted, but she lost her place when Ser Greagoir propelled her forward towards the carved metal doors at the far end of the room. She tried not to drip on the clean floor but realised it was a battle she would have to resign herself to lose. Aunt Mildred would never have let her drip muddy rainwater onto her floors and Alyce was deeply uncomfortable about the trail of footprints she left behind, wondering if she would get a chance to come back later with a pail of water and a scrubbing brush...

The Templars continued on and she with them, the dim corridors sucking out what little warmth was left in her flesh.

Tired and cold, she found it hard to keep track of where they were taking her. It _felt _like they had been walking in circles forever, unable to determine whether this was the cause of her dizziness or whether it was the dizziness that was causing her to feel as though they were travelling in circles.

Contemplating this conundrum, she found her escort stopping at the entrance to a room. The door swung ponderously open, revealing other children inside, along with a couple of adults in colourful robes. The other children regarded her with open curiosity, leading her to wonder whether she'd grown an extra head. _Are these mages_, she wondered? They looked like birds, colourful ones from Antiva she had once seen in one of Aunt Mildred's books.

Directed to join the other children, Alyce reluctantly walked towards the group. They didn't speak to her; they had no reason to – or an opportunity. The door opened again, admitting a square-shouldered older man in robes of such flamboyance and colour, Alyce found herself shielding her eyes from the sight. Introduced to them all as the First Enchanter, he said a few words of welcome in a gentle, fatherly voice. He approached the nearest child, Templars closing in around him in a solid wall of metal and cloth.

Alyce stepped closer, trying to get a better view. The child was older than she and when the curtain of Templars parted, the child was led silently away by one of the mages. The First Enchanter approached her next, smiling – but Alyce never trusted people with smiles or kindness – and she didn't trust the First Enchanter now.

"Come now child…" the First Enchanter tried in a cajoling voice, but Alyce kept retreating; her back colliding with Ser Greagoir's knees. The Templar seized her arms, forcing to stand still. Looking up into his face - because she trusted _him_ and knew that he would protect her – she didn't realise what was happening until pain sliced across her arm. She only screamed from surprise, strong arms preventing her from struggling as blood flowed down her forearm into the open mouth of a small glass bottle.

The collection done, the First Enchanter muttered something under his breath. The wound closed and Alyce realised then that the smell she had detected when she first entered the Tower was the smell of _magic_. It was not a smell that she liked, feeling her stomach wobble unpleasantly.

The First Enchanter smiled at her again, but she returned a glare, deciding then and there that she did not like magic, almost as much as she didn't like the First Enchanter. He must have been used to animosity from newcomers because when he straightened, he gazed upon her with an indulgent expression on his craggy face, placing a hand atop her head. His image swayed and only for the barest moment, did Alyce see his lips move before black tendrils of sleep snaked into her brain; her last thought one of annoyance...He hadn't needed to magic her to sleep; she'd been practically falling over from tiredness..

-oo-

"Hey…you're the new kid." Something sharp poked her in the arm, not unlike the knife when her blood had been taken from her. "Come on. If you don't wake up, you'll miss breakfast."

Alyce's eyes opened slowly. Above her stretched a high stone ceiling; fuzzy in detail and foggy with candle smoke. There were no windows in the room but there was still light; flat and resentful as it was. The boy tugging at her sleeve was small and skinny; with a brown face and hair black as a raven's wing. He spoke as though he had been here a long time, so she followed him out of the room, the two of them walking through the curved corridors.

In the light of day Alyce discovered why it felt as though they had been walking in circles, feeling stupid for not realising before that a tower _would _have circular paths inside. The boy led her to a great, central area filled with noise and bustle. Seeing so many people in one place was a shock and Alyce baulked at the entry, buffeted by others as they pushed impatiently past her into the room.

There were Templars along the walls, helmeted ones, standing statuelike and unmoving with an air of watchfulness about them. There was warmth in the room, but it was not her kind of warmth, missing the silence of the cottage, the smell of the morning air; damp and fresh. By now farmer Wallis would have milked all his cows and left a pail of milk by the cottage door on their way to the east paddock. Tucking herself into the tiny space beside a suit of armour, Alyce watched the rapidly filling rows of benches and tables anxiously. At the back of her mind she knew that she had a duty not to disappoint Aunt Mildred. Hiding never did anyone any good and she knew that sooner or later she would have to dive into the sea of people and either learn to swim amongst them, or drown…but not…this…morning.

Her first morning truly away from Aunt Mildred. Out in the wide open spaces she still felt close to the old cottage. In this alien, grey place Alyce felt her courage falter. Sinking to the ground, she drew her knees into her chest, wishing the wall could swallow her whole and magically return her to Highever.

But it didn't.

Her stomach grumbled and she ignored the conspicuous noise, telling herself that that the growl in her stomach was mere coincidence. Then a bowl of something lumpy was thrust into her face.

A hand rested lightly on her shoulder.

"You'll get used to it," the little boy from before told her in a confident voice. "It was a bit much for me too, at first."

Alyce regarded at the contents of the bowl critically. It was porridge. She hated porridge, but ate it anyway, grateful to have anything to take her mind off the feeling of being overwhelmed by the noise and bustle. The boy must have put a lot of sugar it, feeling her jaw ache from the overwhelming sweetness, swallowing her first mouthful with difficulty.

"I'm Jowan, by the way."

The little boy extracted a half-eaten bread crust from an inside pocket, settling down beside her on the floor.

"Do you have a name?" he enquired, crumbs spilling from his mouth.

Alyce winced on another mouthful, sucking at her back teeth quietly, because there really was _far_ too much sugar in her porridge. "Alyce Amell," she manages eventually.

He chuckles at that. "Funny name. _I've _decided that my name is just going to be Jowan. Your name gets shortened anyway, once you undergo the Harrowing," he added knowledgeably. "That's the ceremony all apprentices have to go through to become a mage. Then you just get addressed as 'Mage' or 'Enchanter' or 'Senior Enchanter'. _I'm _going to be First Enchanter one day."

Lowering the bowl to her lap, Alyce looked at the boy. She couldn't imagine anyone wanting to be a mage.

"I'd rather be a Templar," she informed him.

"A _Templar_?" he scoffed. "They _eat _mages and spit their bones out. Templars don't like mages," he said with a superior sniff.

"If they don't like mages, why would they eat them?" Alyce reasoned. "Wouldn't they be afraid of getting stomachache?"

Jowan looked at her _oddly_, then stood up. "You're a very strange girl," he said and walked away. Alyce watched him go, glad because Jowan seemed to her to be much like the porridge…lumpy, uninteresting and unpalatable. She didn't like him either.

-oo-


	3. Too Much Information

-oo-

**Chapter 3 – Too Much Information**

_THUMP._

Heads turned, foreheads creased. There was a suspicious rustle in the far corner, but as no further noise ensued, the apprentices in the library continued their silent activity. Jowan counted to ten, watching surreptitiously from under his hand before sliding the book from his tablemate's head. Across from them, Neria stifled a snicker.

"She's not actually asleep, is she?" Neria whispered, leaning forward.

Jowan rolled his eyes. He could see Alyce's jumping knee quite clearly under the table. He tapped her on the shoulder. "Will you behave yourself," he hissed, tracking movement just a little beyond the elf's head. "The Templars are getting restive."

A pale brown head rose slowly from the table, revealing bleary, bored grey eyes. By the time the curious Templar had reached their table however, the three of them were, for all appearances, engaged in industrious study. As soon as the Templar moved out of range, Alyce's head fell back to the table surface with another loud thump, drawing attention once more to their study group from surrounding library-goers.

"Urgh…I'm. So. Bored," Alyce moaned as though in pain. "Maker, I _hate _magic…It was created to bore us to tears, wasn't it? I mean," she flicked a lazy finger through her messy piles of parchment. "How much more lessons about magic are they going to shove down our unresisting throats? Until we explode? That wasn't a joke about turning abomination, by the way…"

"Alyce!" Jowan attempted to replace the book over Alyce's head. "Shut up. You're going to get us Holy Smited!" Jowan groaned worriedly.

"Holy Smoted," Neria corrected him.

"Wholly Smitten," Alyce muttered into the wood. She raised her head slightly, resting her chin on the back of her hand. "Considering _who _has library duty today…"

Neria turned a demure shade of dark pink, raising her head at the correct angle for maidenly haughtiness. Alyce rolled her eyes. Even the act of disdaining all before her made Neria look her best, though to be fair, everything Neria did was artless and natural. Even the way she laughed. Alyce had read in a novel how the heroine had a bell-like laugh. Obviously it was not a Chantry bell; the deafening, _dongg, dongg_ _donngg-ing_ kind, but a gentle, tinkly, ringing the bell for the servant sort. Neria had a laugh like that. People turned and _smiled _when Neria laughed because it was such a beautiful sound.

Alyce was quite jealous. When _she_ laughed, it sounded like a pen of grovelling pigs; _snort…guffaw, guffaw…snort…_But it could be worse. She could sound like Jowan and there was _no _description yet invented to describe _that _sound_._ The best thing to do was to try not to make him laugh at all. Given his natural disposition, that was quite an easy thing to do.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Neria returned to her neat piles of parchment, a stray lock of starlight coloured hair falling across her cheek. Alyce sighed, stretching her arms across her dog-eared books. She slumped in her chair, her knee continuing to jump under the table, bored beyond even her own belief.

Unlike herself or Jowan, who had both come from the country, Neria Surana had come from the city; from the Alienage in Denerim. It was a terrible place by all accounts, if someone like Neria _preferred _to live in the Tower of Magi. She was also beautiful; the kind of beautiful that would have a jealous step-mother send her off into the woods to be slain by a member of staff that was almost guaranteed to attempt to pass off a nug heart as a human being's…when it was fairly common knowledge that nug hearts were usually smaller, lighter and far, far tastier. Especially jellied.

Alyce liked to think one day a prince would come to the Tower, fall madly in love with her friend and take her away from all this…of course, this scheme involved completely _ignoring _the fact that not only was Neria a Maker-cursed, magic-ridden source of pure evil, but a member of a lesser species. Besides, the only known prince in Ferelden – to anyone's knowledge – was already betrothed. So unless one was being hidden somewhere as a spare, Alyce _supposed _Neria was doomed to remain in this cold Tower until she turned hag, abomination or both…and qualified to become First Enchanter.

"You know Neri, you should grow your hair really, really long," Alyce suggested illogically.

Neria looked up from her parchment; a small frown marring her perfectly contoured forehead. "Beg pardon?"

Alyce sighed up towards the ceiling. "Just so the handsome chevalier can climb up it and rescue you from this Tower."

"Do I want to be rescued?" Neria asked.

"You say the oddest things," Jowan shook his head at her.

"Thanks," Alyce said, tipping her face up. "It comes from being bored to the point of pointlessness in this Maker-forsaken place."

"You sound like Anders," Neria murmured.

Alyce halted her study of the library's vaulting to cast a keen look towards her friend. "_Who_ is Anders?" she asked.

"He's…"

"Isn't he that Mage that got caught trying to swim Lake Calenhad disguised as a porpoise?" Jowan scowled.

"Octopus," Neria corrected vaguely, tapping her quill on her notes. "He was an octopus. And we're supposed to be studying." Her tone of voice indicated the subject was closed. With a groan of unhappiness Alyce slumped in her seat again, staring up at the chandelier directly above them. A loud boom, followed by panicked screaming on the other side of the partition was the only thing that broke the silence but apprentices sustaining third-degree burns or limb re-alignment were everyday, ordinary occurrences and were more or less ambient noise. As long as it didn't happen to the listener, it wasn't worth worrying about.

She tilted her head to the side, catching sight of the Templar behind Neria. He jerked upright suddenly when she looked at him, staring fixedly ahead. She slid her gaze back to Neria. _Hm…_Casually leaning forward, Alyce picked up a book and propped it in front of her face, completely obscuring herself from view. After a long while, she peeked out over the top, catching the Templar watching Neria again. This time he turned around completely, the back of his neck turning the same colour as his red hair.

Alyce slammed her book closed, making everyone within a two metre radius jump. She stood, Jowan hissing at her like an angry goose as she collected her things.

"_Alyce…_Not everyone is a complete know-it-all like you. Some of us have to _work _at it," he told her.

The object of his ire simply shrugged. Piling her remaining belongings into her arms, she informed them. "I'll be in the dorm." Her grand departure was ruined somewhat by her robes catching the corner of the table, causing her to nearly lose her ink pot. Hastily freezing its contents, Alyce readjusted her load and made a point to pass by the Templar.

"Her favourite colour is green," she told him, sweeping past; a comment that caused his face to turn another shade of scarlet.

As she emerged from the library, she met Niall coming the other way. He turned smoothly on his heel to walk beside her.

"I was just about to come looking for you," he said in his soft, self-deprecating voice.

Alyce looked at the Mage in surprise. Her mentor _never _came to look for her. She always had to track _him _down. It was almost as if the hidebound recluse were _afraid _of her.

"What about?" she asked. She stopped suddenly, worry clouding her eyes. "It's not…Is it news from home?" she asked, anxious for him to tell her 'no'.

"Well, no…" he replied – and she exhaled a breath of relief. "Are you expecting news from Highever?" he asked.

"Not bad news," she grimaced. _Never bad news…_She'd have to track the Knight Commander down soon. He had always been a difficult man to pin down. She'd learned over the years that a line had been indelibly drawn between the two main inhabitants at the Tower of Magi; like cats and dogs, black and white…his and hers…Those who crossed the line were dealt with harshly and then held up as an example for future, potential line-crossers. Access to the Templar section of the Tower was strictly off-limits to Mages. Unless Alyce happened to meet him in the lower levels, her contact with Knight Commander Greagoir occurred through more senior mages and that was unreliable at best.

She knew that he had made some kind of arrangement with the Revered Mother in Highever. Letters arrived from time to time, but being told her Aunt was merely 'well' was not enough and frustrating, to say the least. In order to take her mind off worrying about Aunt Mildred, Alyce had thrown herself into her studies. It was both gratifying and mortifying to find that she was actually quite good at the practice and theory of magic. She had learned discipline from an early age so controlling her magic was easy. Not that she allowed herself to become complacent. Even the best mages could turn abomination. Demons preferred _good _mages…

"So…" Alyce slid another look towards her mentor. He was actually quite a tall man, but a hunching posture took several inches from his height. "What did you want me for?"

Niall startled, eyes going wide. "Oh, I didn't want you…I mean…uh…that sounded really bad…I apologise."

"Looking for me then?" Alyce said with a sigh.

"Was I? Oh, yes, so I was. I have a message: the First Enchanter would like to see you after supper this evening."

Alyce was sure she could detect a note of nervousness in his voice…well, more than usual anyway. Niall was an _Isolationist; _a mage that would like nothing more than for all mages to live on a quiet island somewhere, far from the rest of the world. If Niall could have his way, he would spend the rest of his days hiding in a darkened hut, somewhere in the wilds of Ferelden…not practicing magic and being left alone and not having to mentor apprentices like Alyce…or any apprentices at all, really.

"Did he say why?" she frowned, curious.

"Oh, uh…He…" He looked very much like someone who had forgotten a very important message; looking pale and panicked and very much as though he would like – as that Anders person had done – to turn into an octopus and swim as far away from here as possible.

"He…h-he didn't say," Niall stuttered at her.

"Well, okay," Alyce said, reasonably. "I guess I'll find out when I speak the First Enchanter tonight." _Urgh…and what fun _that _would be. I'm so looking forward to that…not._

"Yes," Niall replied, sounding relieved. "You will." He stopped as they had reached the stairwell to the Apprentices level. He wasn't willing to go any further. "You should probably get some rest," he added thoughtfully.

"Why?"

"Oh, did I say rest? Oh yes, of course I did. I mean in the context of…my, you apprentices _do _work hard. All work and no play makes…uh, which would be an inappropriate comparison, surely. _However,_"

Shifting her books and bits in her arms, Alyce reached out and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Why don't we just leave it there?"

"What? Oh. Um. Yes, thank you, apprentice."

She had no idea why he was thanking her, but she doubted he knew either. Resisting the urge to tell him he was cute when he was being scholarly and awkward, because it would be just too cruel, she instead told him; "So, I'll see you later?"

He paled. "Why?"

"Because…" Alyce explained slowly and carefully. "…you're my mentor and I need to go over some notes with you? Theory," she assured him. "Entropy," she added. "I came across some contradictory information about misdirection hexes…and was hoping that you could help point me in the right direction…" Alyce paused, willing, hoping, praying that he would _get _her statement, but he only stood, looking thoughtfully at her.

_Really, too cruel…_

"Of course," he said eventually. "I'd be happy to go over any notes you've made. Hexes are by nature, quite complex spells to master. But I shall do my best."

Alyce offered him a nod and began down the stairs.

"Oh," he called after her in a worried tone. "Try not to be late for your meeting with the First Enchanter!"

Half-way through the door, he could not see the eye-roll. Alyce closed the door quietly behind her, leaning against it briefly. _Really…way too cruel…_

-oo-


	4. The Lost King

-oo-

**Chapter 3 – The Lost King**

Alyce stuck her fork into the mound of slithery, pale tubes, hooking them onto the tines and bringing them up to eye level. It looked _foreign _and un-Fereldan. It also smelled like cheese and she hated cheese. Cheese was milk that had given up and had gone into retirement. It was food that couldn't be _bothered, _tainting everything it came into contact with, with sour apathy. Clearly, not everyone felt as she did. Across the table, Jowan was steadily inhaling his serve of cheesy tubicles, smacking his lips and looking around to see whether the call for seconds had been sounded. There was a speck of sauce on his chin that Alyce would dearly have loved to have zapped off with a blast of electricity, but magic was absolutely forbidden in the dining hall.

Dropping the fork and its load back onto her plate, Alyce slid her chair backwards, resting her head against the wall. To this day, she found it hard sitting in the midst of the cacophonous crowd of apprentices and mages at meal times, preferring a bench along the wall instead. It meant being directly next to a Templar but it was a small price to pay. Ravenous apprentices were surprisingly loud and it was as much a way to save her hearing as her nerves.

Beside her Neria was investigating the tubes with intense scrutiny; even more so than Alyce had.

"What do you think?" the elf asked, turning slightly cross-eyed. "Antivan? Or Orlesian?"

"Probably Inedible-an," Alyce said, giving the tubes another resentful prod. Her activity; or lack of it caught Jowan's attention.

"Are you going to eat that?" he asked, reaching for her plate before she could reply. Neria nibbled on the end of a tube. She made a soft noise of surprise.

"It's actually not bad," she said, trying to wind more around her fork.

"It has cheese in it," Alyce stated unhappily. "You know cheese and I don't get on."

"You're just fussy," Jowan said, or at least that was what Alyce had thought he had said, seeing as their only male friend (and that was debatable) had as yet to learn how to separate talking with eating and breathing. One of those activities usually ceased while the others occurred. Convincing Jowan to stop breathing would be a bit of a challenge however.

Turning her gaze from the sight of Jowan eating, because he'd discarded his cutlery in favour of simply sucking the food off the plate, she caught sight of Niall, making his way to the Mage's table. She found Neria's elbow digging into her side.

"He's cute, yeah?"

"In a kind of 'I'm terrified of people, please don't touch, look at or come within a three-mile radius of me' way, yes," Alyce agreed, following Niall's progress. There seemed to be more discussion than usual at the senior mage's tables this evening and she wondered what had been happening outside the Tower. The First Enchanter was conspicuous by his absence.

"Well, you're lucky to have Niall as your mentor," Neria sighed, oblivious to her friend's observations. "I'd be lucky if old man Sweeney remembered to wear his _robes_, much less his underga…" Neria had finally looked up from her plate. Conversation that had at first appeared as a low hum at the head of the dining hall had been steadily building into a loud buzz and the atmosphere had taken on an nervous edge.

The templars standing furthest from the senior mage's table – and that included their own, friendly neighbourhood templar - ceased their unmoving, statue-state and were now scanning the crowd, hyper-vigilant over their charges for any…changes. Mages were sensitive, emotional beings…_apparently_, which made them dangerous. It was a wonder the Templars didn't have a specific place to lock female apprentices in at 'that time' every month…or moody teenage male apprentices for that matter…_oh, wait…_

"What do you think is going on?" Neria asked, squinting at the Senior Mages' table. There appeared to be much face slapping and chest thumping and bending over each other. Considering the reputation the older mages had, Alyce wondered whether this was just an excuse to grope each other in public…no, that was extremely uncharitable of her. She didn't even want to _think _about people that age…in physical contact with each other…in activities not involving clothing…

"I think I'm going to be violently ill…"

"I'm not surprised," Jowan quipped. "You've hardly eaten anything. Come on; at least have some bread or something."

"Jowan, can you stop living in another country in your head for a while and pay attention?" Neria chided him. "Something weird's going on."

Alyce had been about to stand suddenly, but at the last moment decided against it, her bottom hovering a couple of inches above the bench uncertainly. It was never a good idea to make any sudden movement around Templars that were _this_ tense. She rose the rest of the way slowly, finding Neria's hand on her arm half-way up.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

Alyce shrugged. "I was supposed to see the First Enchanter after dinner," she told them.

"Well, if you're not going to stay to eat, can I have your seconds?" Jowan asked, piling up his empty plates and then realising too late being in possession of two dishes was going to make him look bad.

"You're incorrigible!" Neria told him in disgust.

"I'm hungry," Jowan snapped back. "Not to mention; I'm a growing boy." He looked pointedly at Alyce, towering over the both of them. Alyce curled her lip at him. It really annoyed him that she was a head taller than he. In a token of friendship, she patted him condescendingly on the head as she went past.

"Never mind shorty," she told him. "I'm sure if you behave, the nice templars will put you on one of their racks…you know, the ones that streeeeeeeeetch."

"Oh, ha, ha, very funny." He glowered at her. "I'll be sure to remember that the next time you want me to peel your deathroot."

Alyce glared at him. "_Who _needs _his _deathroot peeled?"

Neria flicked a forkful of cheese at Jowan gleefully. "Sprung!"

Jowan stood too. Looking darkly at both girls, he told them resolutely, "I'm going for seconds…"

-oo-

_How odd I never noticed this before…_the ancient stone corridors seemed to draw Alyce forwards, almost directing her footsteps. Or perhaps it was because the higher levels were emptied of their occupants and they seemed wider, colder and taller than usual. The Tower halls were certainly silent, except for the odd, soft skitter of whatever magic-resistant vermin lived behind the long tapestries. There didn't even seem to be any templars around, until she passed by the stockroom. An unusually loud rustle behind the wall hanging had made her pause, listening to the odd clicking noise. _Definitely not a mouse…_when a voice had he flattening herself to the wall in startled surprise.

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you in the dining hall?"

The voice was human. Male. Irritable. _Just a Templar; just a Templar…_Once she had assured herself that it _was_ only a templar_, _and not some magically enhanced, insectoid killing machine, Alyce turned to the speaker, one hand clutching at her chest.

"Urgh, don't startle me like that, Bran!"

"It's _Ser _Bran to you, apprentice," the Templar snapped impatiently. "And you haven't answered my question."

"Appointment with the First Enchanter," she recited. She frowned at him, giving his stubbled visage a keen, penetrating look. "Are you…lurking?"

"No. I am not." He raised his chin a little _too _defiantly. "I am on guard duty."

_Uh-huh…_Alyce felt the intelligent thing to do at this point was to move on, her mouth opening before her brain could stop her…_And I did not see movement in the room behind Ser Bran…Nothing to see here, let's move along…_

"Oh by the way," she heard her treacherous, uncooperative voice tell him. "Your sash is untied…" Clapping her hand over her mouth, Alyce scurried onwards, not even daring to look backwards. It wouldn't do to keep the First Enchanter waiting…

She was practically running by the time she reached the end of the corridor, skidding to a halt outside the First Enchanter's office. She had been just about to knock, when the door was swung open and she found herself colliding with a rust-coloured chest.

"Oh! Maker's breath! Didn't see you there…" For the second time that evening, Alyce felt her heart attempt to flee through her ribcage. Senior Enchanter Torrin shifted her aside to allow the other mages to file out. She recognised Uldred, but not the other one; an elderly female with snowy hair and piercing blue eyes. Those eyes raked over her critically, making Alyce feel self-conscious and awkward. Grey eyes met blue steadily, but by the time the First Enchanter called her name, Alyce's eyes had begun to water in sheer self-preservation. Blinking furiously, she turned, closing the door on the woman.

The First Enchanter waved her towards his desk and she obeyed, carefully navigating the piles of books and parchment on the floor. Alyce surveyed the room as much as her curiosity demanded, trying not to be too obvious about it. Some of the writing on the covers of books or spines were in script that she was not familiar with. One had its cover burned off, the pages underneath charred and blood-stained. There was an odd statue of a dog that the First Enchanter was currently using as a hat stand and a hat stand behind Irving's desk that was being used to hold pot plants. Immense bookshelves lined the walls, crammed to the corners with elderly tomes and no part of the First Enchanter's desk was visible, owing to the amount of scholarly detritus spread over the top of it and spilling over the sides.

She found a chair and had been debating whether to sit on it when she realised that there was a stuffed rat already in it. Picking it up by its tail, she held it up, not knowing what to do with it.

"Oh, you found Aeryc," the First Enchanter's voice exclaimed. "I'd wondered where he'd gone." He held out his hand and Alyce placed Aeryc in it gratefully, waiting for the First Enchanter to seat himself before she attempted to sit herself. After Aeryc had been deposited precariously on top of an ink pot, the First Enchanter instead chose to continue standing, clasping his hands behind his back and sinking his bearded chin into his thin chest.

He shook his head. "These are grave times…" he muttered. "Grave indeed…"

He looked up and regarded her with a sad look in his sunken eyes. It almost made her feel sorry for him.

She cleared her throat. "Niall told me you wanted to speak to me, First Enchanter?"

He nodded, waving one hand in the air as though casting a nonchalant spell. "You will, in most likelihood have heard the rumours."

She gave her head the barest of shakes.

"Ah," he said, dropping his chin again. "Well, the announcement will be made to everyone else soon, so I might as well tell you: the King has been declared dead."

Alyce turned this news over in her head. Something about the statement hadn't sounded quite right.

"Declared?" she asked with a puzzled frown.

"His Majesty and his entourage were reported lost at sea a month ago," Irving told her in his soft, slightly gravelly voice. "A search party has been unable to locate him and the Grand Cleric was forced just today to declare him dead. Prince Cailan will be crowned within the week."

_Maric the Saviour…dead…?_ Alyce did not realise her mouth had fallen open until it snapped closed when she attempted to speak. It seemed quite incredible that the once-exiled king who had survived war with the Orlesians and multiple attempts at assassination to have succumbed to something as simple as a shipwreck…

"This of course," Irving added gravely. "Does not change anything at the Tower…or at the very least, that remains to be seen."

"Have you met the Crown Prince?" Alyce asked.

"Only a handful of occasions did we cross paths," Irving addressed the ceiling. "He seemed…energetic." He smiled at her, which made Alyce slightly nervous. An awkward pause stretched in the silence that followed. Had she been expected to ask more questions about King Maric's…death? She didn't know the man. There was a portrait of him in the Great Hall. She supposed that would be taken down now…or did protocol dictate that it would be kept up during the usual period of mourning? Apart from the shock of unexpected information, Alyce wasn't too sure what to feel. Enclosed by the stones of this Tower in the middle of a chilly lake, the capital and its denizens were distant and indistinct. They had a king. And then they didn't. And in a week's time, they would have a king again.

Should she have asked about King Maric afterall…?

"Oh..." he appeared to collect himself. "You must wonder why I have called you to see me?" Irving continued smoothly, cutting off access to discussion about kings and princes. "Niall and I have discussed at length your progress to date. He feels – and I concur - that a more…experienced mentor be assigned to you."

Alyce felt her skin prickle with anxiety. She knew she intimidated the gentle Niall, but surely she hadn't been so bad that he would want to be rid of her? Wracking her memory for instances where she might have really put him offside, she came up with a few possibilities, but nothing specific. Yes, she'd make the odd comment which usually bounced off his rock armour-hard skin, but nothing _really _nasty. It would have been like kicking a very shy puppy and her conscience would never have allowed her to do that.

"Don't be concerned, child," Irving added in response to her stricken expression. "Niall simply feels that your abilities have outgrown him. He has instead suggested Senior Enchanter Torrin as your mentor."

Alyce stared at the First Enchanter, dumbstruck. _Senior Enchanter Torrin…_Senior Enchanter…_Senior…_Mentoring usually occurred between mages of good standing and apprentices. Rarely did Senior Enchanters ever take on an apprentice. Becoming a Senior Enchanter meant you no longer had to dirty your hands dealing with grubby apprentices any more. She didn't know whether this was a good thing or bad or whether to feel happy about it…or run screaming from the room in terror.

Indistinct noises were emerging from her mouth. Irving chuckled at her.

"There is no need to feel alarmed, child," he assured her. "Torrin has mentored apprentices before, though I warn you; he will stretch your abilities to lengths you are unlikely to have deemed possible." He added in a tone that suggested a directive rather than reassurance; "I have no doubt you will rise to the occasion."

The audience was over. He had delivered his sentence. She was to be handed over to one of the strictest, most hardworking mages in the Tower of Magi. As Alyce backed out of the room, she wondered what despicable evil she had performed in a previous life to deserve such a fate. Perhaps if she could survive her first month with the Senior Enchanter, she might prove herself to be such an inept fool that Torrin would hand her back to Niall...

Neria and Jowan were waiting for her by the time she had trudged numbly back to the apprentice quarters.

Jowan was the first to leap on her as soon as she crossed the threshold. "Have you heard about the King?" he asked.

"It's just awful…!" Neria said, her hands twisting. "Poor young Cailan. To have lost his mother at such a young age and now his father…"

Alyce sank to the bed, hugging the bedpost. Neria sat beside her. "So what did the First Enchanter want?" she asked.

"Yeah…" Jowan said, observing his friend with a critical eye. "You look like someone's just died."

"Idiot," Neria snapped. "The King's just died."

"Well, we don't know that," he said, trying to be reasonable. "He could have died weeks ago. Who's to know?"

Neria rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Mr Sensitive," she sighed. Giving Alyce's shoulder a squeeze, she asked. "What is it Alyce? You do look like you're in shock. Do you want to talk about it?"

Alyce let go of the bedpost, smoothing her robes over her knees. She looked over at Jowan, with his worried, spotty face and then at Neria; perfect in every way. Alyce felt her chin wobble, overcome with emotion. She was lucky to have such good friends…even Jowan…

"So," Jowan began will ill-concealed curiosity. "What world-shattering announcement has the First Enchanter hit you with?"

Alyce shook her head and sighed. _The First Enchanter…? No…_Bottom lip trembling, she told them, "I've been..." she tried to explain, "I've been dumped by Niall..."

-oo-


	5. A Testing Time

A/N: Hey, thanks to all who have sent reviews (I'm still waiting for that flame…_Roxfox1962!_ One day…one day…), bookmarked and favourited. As always I'm overwhelmed by your kind words and encouragement. Thank you!

The world alas, still belongs to Bioware. I'm just visiting and trying to fit in with the locals…

-oo-

**Chapter 5 – A Testing Time**

"You thought I had _dumped_ you?"

"Shh…" Alyce grabbed a pillow, shoving it over his head. If he couldn't talk, then she could listen. There was definitely something or some_one _next door…making an awful lot of noise. It sounded a lot like…The corner of the pillow bent downwards, revealing Niall's rumpled head and a sardonically curved eyebrow. He was good at that particular expression she'd found.

"Someone's next door…" she whispered.

"Yes," Niall replied, in a normal tone of voice that had her shushing him again. "That would be Enchanter Goran…" He cocked his head to the side, listening…"And Enchanter Verity, I believe. I'd recognise that desperate panting anywhere."

_Verity? _Alyce mouthed at him…"I thought she was with…" She rolled her eyes. "Oh, never mind. _Mages…_"

"Look," Niall told her. "Do you want to continue this?"

Alyce wiped an arm across her face. They'd been _at _this for way too long. Niall was a great deal better at this sort of thing than she. She was tired…and sore…_but if I'm ever going to master this…_Flexing her shoulders, she nodded mutely. She brought her arms upwards, hands curling into fists, bracing herself.

"Right," she gave another curt nod. "Hit me again."

Niall didn't hesitate. With barely a flicker of an eyelid, he'd enclosed her in another crushing prison that she was too slow – yet _again _– to counter. Fighting for breath, she began the counterspell, spots dancing the Remigold before her eyes. Before she passed out, Niall released her and she collapsed back onto the bed, gasping for air. Once more she felt the rush of Niall's healing spell. Staring up at the ceiling, she wondered whether she'd ever master the damned Fade Shield. She also wondered whether he'd use something a little kinder than a crushing prison…

"I'm almost afraid to ask," she turned her head towards him. "But what are the chances you won't use a crushing prison on me if I asked you to hit me again?"

"Very slim, I'm afraid," he chuckled at her. "It's one of the better spells to use in an enclosed space such as this." Alyce stared at him. Looking around at his quarters – supposedly _private _– she would hardly describe it as 'enclosed'. Even the bathing area appeared exposed, even tucked as it was behind a wall. Why, anyone could just walk in and then peek around the corner…and as for _privacy…_Well, the loud moans coming from the cubicle next door was a pretty good illustration of how private a room this was.

Niall crossed his arms and stared at Alyce. "What I don't understand is why you haven't asked Senior Enchanter Torrin to practice defensive spells with."

"You crazy mage," Alyce told him. "Torrin would _kill _me."

"You know there was a reason why I recommended he mentor you, not me," he reminded her. "I'd hate him to think I was encroaching into his space – and you didn't answer my question earlier."

She made a face at him, the two of them waiting until the groans and screams had ceased next door. Conversation would have been impossible otherwise; Alyce giving the tapestry behind Niall intense study until the noise had abated. Niall dropped his head into his hand, giving it a shake. "He used the closet last time…" he told her. "_My _closet…" he added sourly.

"Ew."

She stood, brushing the hair from her face with her hands. She didn't really want to continue that line of discussion. Listening to that…in Niall's company was just…_awkward._

"Well," she said; her gaze firmly on the rug at their feet. "I guess I should work on timing on my own." She began to turn away, adding hastily, "Thanks for your time though, I really appreciate it…" His hand had snaked out to grab hers, snatching it back almost immediately as though contact with her had burned him. She watched him stare at the floor, hands resolutely clenched by his sides, murmuring profuse apologies. He wasn't even blushing, just looking paler than usual.

Alyce sighed. "I was…young, Niall," she gave in and told him softly. "It just _felt_ like rejection at the time."

"You're _still_ young, Alyce," Niall countered, his voice and expression unreadable. "As for rejection…" He frowned in thought. "I would not…I don't think that I would _ever_…" He gave a great sigh. "You are right. You should work on your timing." When he raised his head to address her, he did not look directly at her, but at the screening wall behind. "You have made good progress today. Torrin will be pleased. Don't…don't let me keep you."

She would have stayed and tried to explain, but was there anything to explain? Niall had been her mentor two years ago. The Alyce two years ago had been even more foolish than the one that existed today. Mentioning the rejection thing had been a throwaway line; a way to make conversation. She hadn't expected him to take her seriously. Besides, the couple next door were _distracting. _She wanted to be out of range of their unholy mutterings and moanings, finding it just too darned _uncomfortable. _If it had been in the company of any other mage, she might have been able to make a joke about it, but _Niall…_?

Then he wandered over to his neat writing table, seating himself with his shoulder facing her, for all appearances absorbed in a study of some historical account of the Tevinter Imperium. It felt like a dismissal and the same feelings she had felt when she had been told she was being assigned another mentor because the first one didn't want her, came rushing back. Stepping quietly out of the room, she ignored the giggling from the neighbouring cubicle, closing the door resolutely behind her. She wouldn't ask for his help again she knew, though she really wanted to, feeling as though an opportunity had presented itself and she had failed to act on it. Or maybe it was his way of telling her he wasn't interested.

Either way, she couldn't help but feel she'd hurt a friend because she'd been too scared of rejection yet again. It was…disappointing.

-oo-

They intercepted her after supper. Rubbing the last of the crumbs from her chin while exiting the dining hall, she'd found herself surrounded by templars on all sides, separating her from her friends.

"Come with us," one of them instructed her. She did not recognise his voice. She thought she knew most of the templars that lived in the Tower, but she was also aware that the Knight Commander liked to keep a fairly frequent rotation in his staff. It meant less likelihood of a templar developing _sympathy _for a mage. Casting a look over her shoulder, she saw Jowan and Neria looking both baffled and concerned, but she was given little time to speak to them, carried forward by the templars. They didn't touch her; they didn't need to. Their breastplates were not shaped like clipper hulls purely for aesthetic reasons, finding herself being bumped along the corridor by the burning sword of Andraste at her back.

They took her past the Mage quarters up into the templar level. Apprehension prickled at the back of her neck as they made her way through the living quarters of the mage shepherds. She'd never in her life been this far up in the Tower and she'd heard stories told in hushed, frightened voices about mages suffering abuse at the hands of templars, but the templars around her now had intercepted her in front of a crowd of apprentices and mages…and she suspected that despite the armour and the holy smiting and the _looming, _they weren't the ones in charge. The last word always rested with the First Enchanter.

It didn't make being taken through the templar quarters and training area by four armed templars any less frightening.

They had reached what looked like a training area; lots of wide open spaces and straw dummies between rows and rows of weapon racks. There was even a circular whetstone in one corner beside a wide metal tub of presumably blunt weaponry awaiting sharpening.

"Wow…" she breathed, despite her anxiety. "You templars have…an awful lot of swords…"

"Keep moving," was the short recommendation from the lead templar.

They moved her on past the practice areas, reaching a set of metal doors above a short flight of stairs. They opened by unseen hands from the inside and she was prodded up the stairs. After stumbling on to the top step, she turned to wait for the templars to find the doors closing on them. There was nothing else but to continue on, the First Enchanter's voice startling her out of her curious study of the room.

"Come inside, child," the elderly mage addressed her. There were three more templars in the wide domed room, including – surprisingly - Knight Commander Greagoir. It occurred to her then and only then _why _she had been called into this room.

_Harrowing._

Never before had she felt so incredibly, stupidly stupid for being so dense and clueless. And never before did she feel so unprepared. All those dreams she had had; nightmares about turning up to exams without having studied all year, studied the wrong thing or arriving buck naked with everyone pointing and laughing seemed preferable to real life experience. The First Enchanter was speaking, his words washing over her without actually entering her brain. Even the Knight Commander spoke, reciting the First Rule Mages were imprinted with…

_Magic exists to serve man…and not to rule over them…_

_How do I tell them I'm not ready? _She wondered in growing panic. Senior Enchanter Torrin had not even mentioned her Harrowing in any kind of schedule, implied or otherwise. She knew it had to happen eventually, but…_now?_

"You _are _ready," the First Enchanter drilled her with his sharp brown gaze, gesturing towards the glowing blue pedestal in the centre of the room. As she approached it, every nerve in her body buzzed. It felt as though her skin had come alive and was trying to remove itself from her body. Her stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. She'd had tomato at dinner…and peas…they would not be attractive coming back up, partially regurgitated and yet the bowl of lyrium – for that was obviously what it was – beckoned her forward, even as being closer to it made her deeply, deeply physically uncomfortable. Thoughts of resistance fled her mind. She watched in detachment her hand moving forward; tendrils of lyrium leaping out of the bowl like hungry fish, latching onto her fingers and creeping up her arm. She watched in horror as the blue fire of pure lyrium encased her crawling flesh.

Then everything went white.

-oo-

_Is she alright? _

_How long is she going to be like this?_

…_but it's been days…_

_She's still alive isn't she? The templars didn't Righteous Strike her…_

…_Alyce…_

"Niall?"

That had been her voice; or at least her voice as she – sort of - remembered it, sandpapered to a rough finish and doused with a liberal application of coarse turpentine and then set alight with holy fire…

"No. _Not _Niall. I am sorry to disappoint."

Alyce opened her eyes to find Senior Enchanter Torrin seated beside her, making notes on a wax tablet. He appeared at first at an odd angle, until her brain finally worked out that it was because she was lying down.

"You're awake," he told her in his drawling, mocking voice. "I'll admit I've never had an apprentice take so long to recover from their Harrowing. How am I ever going to live this down?"

Should she try to sit up? She was still trying to remember how to work those dangly long bits by her sides…what were they called again? Oh yes. Arms.

"Lyrium sucks…" she muttered darkly.

"Lyrium is the lifeblood of every mage," Torrin informed her coolly. "As well as our curse. Ironic isn't it how magic relies on lyrium to give it power and yet conveniently _destroys _the magic user at the same time. And people say the Maker has no sense of humour…Personally I think the Maker has His middle finger firmly crooked at the disaster we commonly refer to as Thedas." He tapped the tablet with his stylus, regarding her with a mixture of disdain and indulgence. "Well, up you get Mage," he ordered. "The sooner you are back on your feet, the sooner we can leave."

Alyce had been contemplating her feet, and how they weren't working particularly well at this time. She startled and would have bolted upright if she could remember how to do so.

"Leave?" she repeated stupidly.

"Yes. Leave." Torrin informed her. "A tournament is being held in honour of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden…all one of them. The First Enchanter promised a contingent of Mages to represent the Circle and no doubt reattach limbs and vital organs as the need arises, tournaments being what they are…" He glared at her. "Pack enough for a week," he suggested, tucking the tablet under an arm and standing. The stylus he tucked behind an ear. "We will be taking the overland route to Redcliffe and will be staying for the duration of the Tourney."

"Redcliffe?"

"There appears to be an echo in this room," Torrin remarked, looking about. He returned his gaze to her. "You have an hour. I will be downstairs in the entry hall."

He had already been walking towards the door. Alyce had no idea where she _was _much less leave here to find her way back to her quarters…_where did I live again…?_ And she had an hour to relearn how to walk, find her way back, pack and then work out how to get downstairs…blast Torrin…! _And oh Maker…I really need a major visit to the privy…_When was the last time she had eaten? Contemplating all of these things, Alyce heaved herself sideways, toppling out of the cot onto the cold stone floor.

"Ow…" she moaned, smelling blood. Well, at least her sense of smell was working…An hour…It would take her half a day to roll herself out of this _room…_

-oo-


	6. The God of Cheese

-oo-

**Chapter 6 – The God of Cheese**

Perhaps it was the terrain. Perhaps it was because she was unfamiliar with the objects on her feet…_boots…_great heavy-soled, leathery things with laces that took half an hour to organise _per foot._ Or perhaps it was because she had been unused to walking these incredible distances in a straight line, as opposed to short distances in a curve. She could even imagine it was because she was still a bit lyrium-addled from the Harrowing, though that _had_ been days ago…but when Alyce went down for the umpteenth time that day, Senior Enchanter Torrin merely stepped over her clumsy body and continued on, leaving her to scrabble back onto her feet as best she could.

Whatever reason had Alyce pitching forward every few minutes into the dusty earth, it _had to stop._ Quite apart from the fact that she was getting filthy (and there was nothing _worse _than a dirty mage), it was highly embarrassing. One would think she had learned to walk barely hours ago, and not something she'd been doing quite naturally for more than seventeen years.

The neck of her robes tightened uncomfortably and she was lifted off the ground and set back onto her feet. It was the Knight Commander, tut-tutting at her with a shake of his head as he went past. Alyce looked down at the mess of her robes. It was just as well they were diarrhoea yellow and brown. The hideous colour seemed to absorb most of the dirt but the ground around Redcliffe was _red, _and the brown panels of her mage robes were slowly being overwhelmed by the growing number of patchy brown stains elsewhere.

Redcliffe was allegedly a day's journey from the Tower. It _felt _like they had been travelling for weeks. She glanced up ahead. The Senior Enchanter was cheerfully engaged in a discussion with Enchanter Leorah, the two of them energetically striding down the hill path. Neither of them were flushed, looked tired and were both as fresh as those horrible, evil little flowery things that Alyce was pretty sure she was allergic to. This was _stupid._ She had been born and bred in the country. This shouldn't be hard for her. She remembered being able to vault over cow pats in a single leap, run through the fields without tripping up once. This was fresh air; something she'd been _dreaming _about for years and only had controlled access to since she'd arrived at the Tower and yet…

"Ah…pshoo!"

"Maker's blessings, Mage…"

Alyce scowled at Ser Bran's departing, armoured back. Why was _he _here anyway? Or was he here because his little trysts with certain inmates of the Tower had been discovered and this was his punishment?

_No. The bastard's enjoying himself too much…_

"Ah, Redcliffe!" Senior Enchanter Torrin announced. "Oh look over there Alyce," he beckoned her to catch up. "A cliff. You'll never guess what colour it might be."

Alyce dutifully stumbled to her mentor's side. "Um…it's kind of an incontinent duck poo brown, Senior Enchanter."

"You have no imagination," Torrin sighed at her.

"Neither did whoever named this place," Alyce replied.

The Senior Enchanter pointed downwards. Alyce grimaced. From this point onwards, it was _downhill_. With sharp rocks. Enchanter Leorah was already _sprinting _down the path, her steady feet guiding her in what looked like a controlled slide, arms held out gracefully for balance. Could she do that? _Not without breaking every bone in my body…_Alyce thought dismally. _Maker, I'm so pathetic…_

"Well," Senior Enchanter Torrin clapped her on the back. "See that building over there? That is your target. I'm sure if you point your nose in that direction, you'll end up there eventually." With this less than sage advice, Torrin took off after his colleague; the templars following close on his heels. Alyce watched them all go miserably, waiting for them to clear the steep incline before attempting to convince herself to go too. It took several minutes.

_This is going to hurt…_she told herself, foolishly closing her eyes before taking a giant step…

-oo-

"Ow…ow…bloody _ow…_damn-ow…ow, ow, ow, ow, ow…!" Alyce limped towards the old fence, draping herself over the top rail, continuing her string of curses and complaints. She didn't care that there were others about; Chantry Sisters, Brothers, lay folk, villagers and a couple of tournament spectators who had wandered into the area, looking for a change of scenery. They ignored her; the strange gangling figure in torn robes and dirt-stains hung over the fence like a discarded ragdoll. She raised her head, so she could rest her cheek on the top of a post.

_Point your nose…Oh, ha, ha…_They were probably laughing about her disgraceful descent down into the village over a pint of ale about now…

"Um…Excuse me miss. Are you…alright?" a voice asked her bleeding elbow. "Can I do anything for you?"

"I'd like a new body thanks," Alyce mumbled into the wood. "This one appears to be completely useless."

A manly chuckle mocked her pain. She raised her head again to see who was laughing at her, grimacing in distaste at what she saw. It was a trainee, his tunic screaming _Warning! Warning! Templar-in-training! _at her disgruntled, battered nerves. It was all she needed…

"Oh, I know _that _look," he folded his arms across his chest. Rather large, muscled arms, she noticed. "If you're about to scream 'unclean!' at me, I'll have you know I did actually remember to wash behind my ears today…or at least…I'm quite sure I did…Well, never mind. Asking for another body probably isn't something you should mention around here – just a bit of friendly advice." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Templars…" he whispered. "They're a bit fussy about _body-swapping_ and _possession_. Odd that."

She stared pointedly at the symbol of Andraste's flaming sword on his tunic. "And you aren't?" she asked. He has nice eyes, she decided…

"I…haven't taken my vows," he said carefully. "I don't think I'm allowed to care just yet."

"Lucky me."

His head snapped back, as though realising something. "Uh…_Oh._" He pointed at her. "You wouldn't be a mage would you?"

"I am indeed a mage," Alyce admitted, wincing as she straightened, surprised to find the trainee was taller than she. Few men were, owing to the fact that genetics had decreed she turn into a beanstalk past the age of sixteen. Jowan was still shorter, though only by half an inch or so. In the last eighteen months the two of them had raced to see who could grow tallest. It depressed him that she turned out ganglier and beanstalkier, but then _everything _depressed Jowan so it hadn't really bothered her much.

Alyce's eyes were about level with the trainee's chin.

"You're a…a mage?" he asked in disbelief. "You don't look like a mage…I mean…" he stopped himself, looking uncomfortable yet added, "How…how _interesting…_"

"Not as interesting as you'd think," Alyce told him frankly. "We're not all fusty old codgers in long dresses true, but…"

"No. _Really_?"

"No. Just _most_ of us are," she grinned at his tone of voice. "The rest of us are inept, awkward, clumsy idiots that fall off mountains…or is that just me…?" She rolled her eyes heavenward. "You know, I think it might be just me."

"I asked because I'd like to know whether I'm likely to wake up tomorrow morning the same shape I went to bed in. I like frogs," he explained hastily. "Fascinating creatures, but I wouldn't want to be one."

Alyce pointed a finger at him. "Zap," she said, making him jump slightly. She tilted her head to the side watching his expression turn from surprise to realising he'd been had. "Feel like eating flies now?" she asked.

"Oh very funny," he said sourly. "Your cruel japes will be remembered to the end of my days…or at least until lunch. I think we're having cheese. Oh, I feel better already."

"I think I feel sick."

"Oh…uh…" He began looking about, for what, Alyce had no idea. Holding up his hands, he commanded her to wait. "I'll go and…fetch a bucket for you, or a trough or something…Just…just don't go anywhere, because you'll just…what?" She'd grabbed a handful of his tunic, shaking her head at him and trying not to laugh.

"I'm not really going to be ill," she told him. "I just hate cheese – well, more importantly, cheese hates me."

"Impossible," he stated flatly. "Cheese is like the Maker. It loves everybody."

"The God of Cheese?" Alyce choked on the words. "Wonderful. And I thought it had been bad enough being cursed with magic. Well be sure that if there is cheese, it'll be thrown your way."

"Thus The God of Cheese rewards the ever faithful," he intoned, hands clasped reverentially. Alyce's jaw dropped.

"Are you _sure _you're training to be a Templar?" she asked, quite sure no other templar she'd ever known – and she had known a _few _– could make a joke, much less one involving a deity. When he sighed, it came from deep within and his response so full of dull resignation, she immediately felt sorry for him.

"Yes."

Clearly, he was a Chantry child; someone that had been 'donated' to the Chantry at a young age. Apart from orphans, it wasn't uncommon for families with too many mouths to feed to offload surplus children to the Chantry. Some became brothers or sisters in the service of the Prophet, others if they showed either aptitude or required…discipline, trained as templars. It seemed a waste that this one would end up being a templar…or, a small voice reasoned in the back of her mind, if he _did, _he might end up at the Tower sometime…She stared into his face and thought what a shame it would be to have _this_ face concealed by a templar's helm…she too gave a deep sigh.

"Well," she offered him a single-shouldered shrug. "I think you'd make a _terrible _templar." _Oh I just had to be honest, didn't I? Fool._

His expression brightened at her statement. He'd been about to respond, when Enchanter Leorah's voice rang out across the courtyard.

"Alyce! Are you harassing the Initiates?"

Alyce turned towards the older mage. Throwing a mischief-laden look back at the trainee, she yelled back, "Yes!"

"Well, stop," Leorah commanded. "And come back into the Chantry. We're expected at the castle this evening." Alyce turned back to the trainee, offering him another shrug. "My keepers call…" she told him, taking a step away. She stopped, chewing on her lower lip. "Um," she began. "Will you be competing in the tournament tomorrow?"

"I hope so," he told her with a self-deprecating grimace. "I think I'm on the M-Team."

"M?" she frowned.

"'Maybe'," he stated, stretching the first half of the word. "It all depends on whether I'm scrubbing pots at the time."

"Ah," she replied, deducing the Revered Mother probably thought he would make a terrible templar as well. "Well, if you're not scrubbing pots," Alyce told him, "I'll be cheering…" She raised her hands to illustrate, immediately regretting the gesture. _He must think I'm an idiot…_Turning abruptly, she hurried – as much as her bruises, scrapes and sprains would allow – towards Enchanter Leorah and the Chantry building.

She wished rather belatedly that she'd thought to ask his name…

-oo-

The mages, it was later to be found, were not allowed anywhere near the Arlessa. Alyce saw her from afar; a sallow, pinch-faced little thing dressed rather severely for the wife of an Arl. Redcliffe was a prosperous Arling and Alyce had heard that the Arlessa was _Orlesian _and so had expected someone far more flamboyant and colourful…and friendly. It did cross Alyce's mind that her internal commentary about the Arlessa had been borne out of resentment for being treated like lower-class citizens, telling herself that searching through her inventory of spells for various diseases was probably not a good idea. Mostly because all the spells she knew were healing ones and the Arlessa would need to develop boils in an unmentionable area _first_ before these particular spells could be applied. The spells, unfortunately, would not cause them in the first place.

"Are you glaring at the Arlessa again?"

Senior Enchanter Torrin used the pretence of helping himself to the bread basket to lean close enough to whisper to Alyce.

"I'm afraid," he told her sardonically, "simply glaring at the woman isn't likely to make her head spontaneously self-combust. Indeed, it is more likely to have her instruct her guards to remove us from the dining room."

Alyce obediently cast her gaze towards her plate. "Is it just me or does she just _look_ like someone who tortures orphans for fun?"

Torrin sighed. "That was beneath you, Alyce. I'm surprised you of all people would stoop to such an inane comment."

Alyce turned to her mentor. "Is this a common perception of mages?" she asked. "Ser Bran described the Arlessa as a pious woman, but she looks at us as though burning us at the stake may be reserved as entertainment for her guests later."

"What?" Torrin's left eyebrow rose – the sarcastic one. "You haven't discovered yet that the world loathes mages? For shame. We are considered slightly less important than elves in Ferelden. Quite a distinction. You should be proud to be so hated." Alyce's gaze went automatically to Enchanter Leorah – an _elf_ - chatting companionably to one of the Chantry Sisters; genteel, well-spoken Leorah who probably had more grace, beauty and intelligence than all of the human female nobles in the entire country put together. Her thoughts then returned to the Tower; to Neria and young Eadric, who considered life in the Tower of Magi preferable to living as an ordinary elf anywhere else and wanted to use magic to prove their worth to the world.

It was…_wrong…_They shouldn't _have _to…

Aunt Mildred had never considered elves – or anyone for that matter – beneath her. If a person could prove their worth to her, then she would accept it, regardless of the shape of their ears or their connection to the Fade. And the Circle too appeared to treat people according to their merits and yet…the Circle – behind the shields of the templars – actively pursued and disposed of Apostates...hedge witches, simple village healers. If someone with a little bit of magic was not under the direct control of the Circle of Magi, they were branded outlaws and criminals.

Her gaze then travelled to the Knight Commander, given a position of honour at the Arl's table. She could understand why Niall and others like him – Isolationists - wanted to simply gather all the mages together and go somewhere where the world did not have to see, hear or deal with them. Except if the Isolationists had their way, it was quite likely the Chantry would then decree that _all_ mages were apostates…and needed to be – what was the word the templars used? – _neutralised._

It was a nice way of saying 'separate body from head', which wasn't a nice thing to say at all, considering it was a more descriptive way of saying it, but templars were not known for being…chatty. She thought of the trainee she had met earlier in the day. She couldn't imagine someone like that dealing with a rogue mage. Or perhaps the Chantry chose innocuous looking people to be templars to lull mages into a sense of false security? It wasn't as if you could take a purple-skirt-wearing soldier seriously...

Alyce turned back to the Senior Enchanter, but as he was now deeply emerged in discussion with Enchanter Leorah and the Chantry Sister, she instead busied herself in separating the components of her dinner into neat piles feeling a bit of a loss and wondering what awful, exotic experiment the cook had dished up for the Tower's denizens. She wished she'd had enough time to speak to Neria and Jowan, but both had been in class when she had returned from the infirmary to pack. Jowan would probably be a bit cross when he found out she'd been on a field trip to Redcliffe.

There was a tinkle of metal across from her. Alyce looked up. The Chantry Sister had dropped her fork; not surprising considering how much she'd been waving it about. Apologising, she bent to pick it up and Alyce caught sight of an oddly dressed knight behind the Sister.

Even more odd; the dark-haired gentleman had been watching _her…_He smiled, raising his goblet in salute. Alyce politely returned the gesture with a serene nod. It seemed the Senior Enchanter was wrong. Not everyone in Ferelden appeared to hate mages.

-oo-


	7. Recruitment

-oo-

**Chapter 7 – Recruitment**

Alyce watched the mail-clad figure scurry off the field, happiness clearly etched into every eager stumble and skip, his grin as wide as his handsome face. He could not have made it any clearer how happy the Grey Warden's decision had been to recruit him. He had not been the best fighter in the tournament by any means. He'd been bested time and again by older, more experienced and better armed opponents. Clad only in iron mail, he'd still taken them on, just as happy to be sent flying in a spectacular loss as he was winning a bout, making the more graceless of competitors look like childishly petulant sore losers…which they had been.

If it had been up to Alyce, she would have chosen Ser Kalvin or Ser Talrew. Both men had cut impressive figures on the field while the Chantry trainee had been almost comical in some of his bouts, tripping over his own feet on more than one occasion.

And yet the Warden Commander had chosen him over the others to become a Grey Warden.

"Most interesting…" Senior Torrin commented, hurrying Alyce from the tournament stand. "It appears the standards of the Grey Wardens have slipped in the last few years." The look he and Enchanter Leorah exchanged did not escape Alyce. This had been the final competition in the tournament. The blonde-haired trainee hadn't even competed in the grand melee or any of the archery competitions. He'd spent most of his time toting buckets and fetching refreshments for the other competitors. Not that Alyce noticed…well, alright she _had._ She'd waved to him once – earning her a stern look from Enchanter Leorah – and he'd looked quite forlorn and…_lonely_ on the field, waiting patiently for his turn.

Well he'd gotten it, thanks to the Warden Commander – the gentleman that had saluted her at dinner that first night. It had been quite a surprise to find he was a Grey Warden. Not that she had had any preconceived ideas of what a Grey Warden looked like, exactly. She just had not expected someone so...plain looking.

Mention of Grey Wardens had Alyce's ears pricking, taking her out of her thoughts to the conversation between the two older mages. She fell back a little, still following and trying to be as invisible as her tall frame would allow.

Senior Torrin mentioned a war to the south, but what war? She wasn't aware that Ferelden was at war with anyone and in any case there was nothing to the south of Ferelden except Chasind and swamp. War with the Chasind? Is that what they meant? But the Wilder Folk were scattered and disorganised. They preferred to keep to themselves…They could hardly be expected to do something as coordinated as mount an attack on the rest of Ferelden.

"…a contingent of mages…?" Enchanter Leorah asked so softly, Alyce could only make out a few words at a time. "How soon?"

"As soon as Irving can convince the Knight Commander, I'd imagine," Torrin replied. He threw a look over his shoulder at Alyce. "Enjoy the tournament?" he asked. "I hope you aren't entertaining thoughts of joining the Order yourself?"

"Well, I shall be quite glad to return to the Circle," Leorah smiled at them both. "I think I've had quite enough excitement to last most of my lifetime."

"We'll be leaving soon?" Alyce asked, disappointed conversation about wars and Grey Wardens had come to an end.

"Yes," Senior Enchanter Torrin told her. "By boat this time," he informed them both. Looking pointedly at Alyce he added, "We'll make better progress if we don't have to scrape you off the landscape every fifteen minutes."

-oo-

"Where have you been?" Jowan was the first to accost her, barely leaving Alyce time to drop her pack onto the ground. She fell backwards onto her bunk, spreading her arms out wide. It was good to be…_home._ Nor would she ever look upon travel over land with reluctance or disdain ever again. There were worse things than walking the length and breadth of Ferelden…and one of those things involved bobbing about in a thin shell of wood and pitch, half-submerged in roiling, churning, natural bodies of very deep water. Land was solid and generally speaking, did not keep moving. Land was _good_.

"And by the way, these aren't your quarters any more," Jowan added with a sniff.

Alyce squinted at him. "What are you talking about?" she demanded. "And stop swaying."

"You're a _mage _now," Jowan reminded her. "So you've been moved into the nice mages' quarter, away from the unwashed, unharrowed apprentices like myself."

Alyce propped herself up onto her elbow, regarding Jowan with a mixture of confusion and tiredness. The thought of moving from this relatively comfortable cot to…somewhere else, filled her with dread. She _wished _he and the room would stop rocking from side to side. She just wanted to lie down and go to sleep.

"Are you kicking me out?" she asked him.

"Well you don't _belong_ here," Jowan stated, addressing the top bunk.

"Well that's just…" Alyce stood rather gingerly to her feet, glaring at Jowan. "Maker, Jowan, you're so bloody pathetic. It's not my fault if the First Enchanter decided to put me through the Harrowing before you."

"Well, I've been here longer than you," Jowan scowled at her.

"By a week!" Alyce pointed out angrily. "And it's still no reason to take it out on me."

"I'm not taking it out on you!" he protested. "I'm just saying I think it's unf…"

"You're saying I didn't deserve to undergo a Harrowing? Is that what you're trying to say?" she demanded.

"Of course not!"

"Oh, not in so many words!"

"What's going on here?" Neria approached from behind them, a large pile of books in her arms. She offloaded them onto the bed lately occupied by Alyce before confronting them both.

"I could hear the two of you from the other end of the corridor. Do you want the templars in here?"

Jowan lifted his chin, still glaring at Alyce. "I merely reminded Alyce that she no longer has a place on the Apprentice's level."

Neria ran a hand through her silvery hair. She shook her head. "Jowan…must you be so…"

"It doesn't matter, Ner," Alyce said, bending down to pick her pack from the floor. "If Jowan wants to be a complete ass, he's quite welcome to it. I'm leaving."

Deliberately keeping her distance from Jowan, Alyce left the room. Her head was spinning, her balance was off, so her departure from the room involved colliding with the furniture and then the doorframe, but she didn't care, making her way to the stairwell with determined steps. She had reached the third level stairs when she heard running feet behind her. Without turning, she knew it was Neria.

"Alyce…" Neria began softly

Alyce stopped with a sigh. "What is his problem?" she asked.

"He's just…It's complicated." Neria threw her hands helplessly into the air.

"It's always 'complicated' with Jowan," Alyce snapped. "Maybe if he took his head out of his arse, it'd be less complicated."

"Alyce," Neria began in a scolding tone. "That's not fair."

"No," Alyce growled. "You know what's not fair, Neria? After spending fifteen years stroking someone's ego, you'd think they'd show you a bit of consideration. Maybe even be happy for someone else for a change, you know, like a _real _friend."

"We just didn't expect you to go through your Harrowing so soon, that's all…" Neria said apologetically. "It took us by surprise."

"Well, you're not the only one," Alyce told her. "It wasn't as if I put my hand up or petitioned the First Enchanter to undergo my Harrowing sooner rather than later."

"I understand that," Neria said soothingly, gripping Alyce's arm. "It…I know this sounds stupid, but you'll be on a completely different floor to us. We won't be able to meet as we used to. You'll be expected to…do magey things. The fact that you even _left _the Tower, without even telling us…"

"That wasn't my fault, Neria!" Alyce told her hastily. "I woke up and pretty much had to pack up and _go_. It wasn't my decision…gah!" She kicked at the door with her foot, glad for the first time that she was still wearing her sturdy boots. She had probably saved herself a badly stubbed toe. "It won't matter what I say, will it? Jowan's going to resent me whatever I do – or don't do." She gave a short, derisive snort. "In a few weeks he'll probably go through his Harrowing, move to the mages' level and be insufferably pompous about 'oh passing my Harrowing in record time'…We won't hear the end of it."

Neria chuckled. "With his rather large nose so far up in the air, he'll spend most of his time tripping over his big feet." She sighed. "I'm happy for you, Alyce. Really. Jowan is too. He's just impatient, that's all. You _know _what his family was like. He just wants to prove himself."

"Well he won't do it by implying I underwent my Harrowing to spite him."

Neria sighed again. "Oh alright. I agree; he _is _an Ass. Although Asses, I believe are much better behaved."

"They also smell better." After a while, Alyce sighed too. She threw her hands in the air in surrender. "_Fine_. I'll talk to him later and tell him as encouragingly as I can what a wonderful mage he is and how talented and how handsome he is, especially now that his skin has cleared up, etcetera, etcetera…"

"Good," Neria said with an approving nod. _Neria, the peacemaker…_Alyce thought dully. She was the sort of person that could launch a thousand ships with her face; inspire entire countries to go to war…not that there was any real cause for that sort of thing – and quite frankly, launching a ship with one's face was impractical because it would hurt too much. Didn't the King usually do that sort of thing with a bottle of wine anyway?

"I'm really tired, Neria," Alyce told her.

"You're also wet," Neria said, realising with a frown that her friend _was _rather damp for the year. She reached up, plucking something from behind Alyce's ear. She held it up for inspection. "This is lake weed. And oh, urgh you smell like a duck pond," she said. "What _have _you been up to?"

"It's a long and tedious story," Alyce told her unenthusiastically. "You really don't want to know."

"Well alright. You get your rest," Neria agreed – and grinned. "And later, party at your place. Now that you have _all_ that space…"

"Fine." Alyce opened the doors to the stairwell. Hoisting her pack onto her shoulder, she waved airily back at her friend. "As long as you bring the marshmallows!"

-oo-

"Now…hold it steady…_steady…_"

Alyce concentrated on the Senior Enchanter's voice. Balancing with one foot in the Fade, and the other in the physical world was difficult at the best of times, but sustaining this state for this long was making her feel as though any minute her ears were going to start bleeding. She could feel tiny touches – feather-light enquiries – at the edge of the shield in the Fade and she wished the Senior Enchanter would just give the okay for her to close the spell down.

There was a demon – a hunger demon – prowling closer now and at the edges of her mental perception, she felt the templar standing guard change his stance slightly; becoming more alert.

"Now," Torrin's voice said softly. "unravel the threads…"

Obediently, Alyce began painstakingly taking the shield apart, careful not to leave any gaping holes. It was at this point that the hunger demon decided to strike…

No longer questing gently, the demon latched onto her Fade-self, seeping into her conscious. "Bastard!" she heard someone's voice cry, setting the hunger demon aflame. Hastily gathering the last of the threads of the spell, she rolled it up in her head, sending another blast of fire into the Fade behind her; the demon's angry shrieks dying to a dull whisper in her head.

When she opened her eyes, it was to find herself sitting on the floor, the templar standing above her, sword raised. The floor around her was scorched black.

Applause sounded behind her; slow and slightly mocking. Alyce looked over her shoulder.

"I was wondering when the creature would make its move," he said tossing a curt nod at the templar to return to his post. He extended his hand towards Alyce who looked stupidly at it for a minute before she realised he was offering to help her up. "Though I would have laid a propulsion shield around myself to begin with, I suppose for _you _that would have been too much to ask."

Alyce shook out the ashes from her robes. "That was a test?"

"Everything is a test, dear girl." As Alyce looked over at her mentor in surprise, he continued to scrutinise her closely. He gave another nod, one quite unlike the one he had given to the templar. She chanced a look at the templar. The sword had been re-sheathed and he too gave her a nod of…what? Acknowledgement? Approval? Alyce was still in shock from hearing 'dear girl' from Torrin.

"I think you'll do," the Senior Enchanter said.

"Do for what?" Alyce asked, feeling stupid for asking – but then she always felt stupid around Senior Enchanter Torrin. You'd think mages would develop some kind of sixth sense to be able to determine what other, smarter mages _meant, _especially when they tossed off things like 'dear girl'.

_What did it mean?_ It made her nervous.

"The King has requested the Circle provide mages to support his army," Torrin informed her. "I've recommended you accompany them."

_Me? _Alyce's brain exclaimed, her voice saying instead, "Why?"

"You'll learn more soon enough," Torrin said smoothly. "But the short version? Darkspawn amassing in the south. Wilder folk have been fleeing the area and there have been reports of small, outlying villages being overtaken."

"But darkspawn are a dwarven problem," Alyce frowned. "How many darkspawn are we talking about here?"

"As I have said," Torrin waved her towards the exit, signalling their session was over. "You will know more soon."

-oo-


	8. A Familiar Face

-oo-

**Chapter 8 – A Familiar Face**

Ostagar was not what Alyce had expected. What she had expected was a swarm of activity and noise and an overwhelming smell of bodies squeezed into a relatively small area with too little water and soap to go around. The mud was there as expected; an aromatic mix of dusty rainwater, soil, trampled vegetation and animal refuse. She also expected to be segregated by a fence of vigilant templars who watched their every move and followed them like silent shadows wherever they went.

What she had not expected was that Ostagar would be so colourful. Between the tents of the King, the General and their staff, the central area - high up above the valley - seemed more like a Fair than a battle staging area. Liveried elven messengers zipped around the camp like brightly coloured hornets. Taking a step forward without looking both ways first meant taking one's life into one's hands.

Alyce had also not expected Senior Enchanter Torrin to say behind at the Circle Tower. Instead she was loosely set under the supervision of Senior Enchanter Wynne, who strode about the camp like a Sergeant Major, her boots eating up the dirt and any rude templar that got in her way. She had been introduced to the King as a group; an event that would have been more enjoyable if she had not been mistaken as a hatstand. Having a heavy plate helm thrown recklessly onto one's head by one's sovereign ruler put a bit of a damper on the experience…not to mention a bruise the size of an ostrich's egg on her noggin…

"_You _got mistaken for a hatstand?" Ser Carroll guffawed at her as she was returned to the mages' enclosure – which was another thing she had not expected. "Why am I not surprised?" _Expected_, she asked herself? It had been more of a hope that the more unstable templars remain at the Circle Tower…

"Ser Carroll…" Alyce's teeth ground together audibly, the cloth containing the chunk of ice slipping slightly off the top of her head. It was throbbing and she was in no mood for Carroll's habitual taunting. It was bad enough that the laughter caused by the 'hatstand incident' had as yet to fade from her ears.

"Run out of mages to harass already?" she glared at him. "I almost feel sorry for you…oh wait, no I don't. Must have been something I ate. Probably didn't agree with me."

He jabbed an armoured finger into her face, making her go cross-eyed tracking its progress to millimetres from the end of her nose. "I'll be _watching _you, mage…" he warned.

"Aw…" Alyce addressed his glove. "And I thought you didn't care…Consider my cockles officially warmed…"

"Bloody _templars_!"

Both Alyce and Ser Carroll turned as Enchanter Kerrin cursed his way back into the mages' enclosure, his face a darker thundercloud than usual. He marched into the main tent and there appeared to be silence for a while. Alyce turned back to continue her abuse of the templar Carroll, when there was an almighty crash from inside the tent. Carroll immediately took a step forward, partially withdrawing his sword when Kerrin reappeared, this time wearing his Enchanter's cowl. He swept past them both, growling, "I'm going to see the Revered Mother!"

Alyce stared at the space where Enchanter Kerrin had been, the metallic scrape Carroll made re-sheathing his sword sounding conspicuously loud in the wake of the Enchanter's storm. Ser Carroll blew a raspberry.

"I think he's been Grey Wardened," he muttered, more to himself.

"What?" Alyce asked, resisting the urge to poke Ser Carroll with the point of her newly-acquired Heartwood Staff.

Ser Carroll's expression was slightly more sour when he explained; "Apparently there's a Grey Warden Templar running errands for the Revered Mother. I'm guessing Enchanter Kerrin has just met him."

"A Grey Warden Templar?" Alyce scoffed. "Isn't that an oxymoron?"

Carroll's eyes narrowed, which was a surprise. Alyce didn't think a word like 'oxymoron' had been anywhere near his limited vocabulary. "In what way?" he pouted at her.

Alyce held her hands up at chest level, indicating a vague area in the air to the left. "On the one hand, we have Grey Wardens," she told him calmly. "Warriors without equal; with no allegiance or ties to any particular denomination or belief, having only one goal in life: _destroy_ darkspawn." She moved her hands to the other side. "On the other hand, we have templars: standard issue skirt and smitey sword, servants of Andraste, with only one goal in life…_must kill and destroy all mages…_bwa, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

The templar's expression had not changed. After several seconds of being glared at mercilessly, Alyce gave up and shrugged. "I think I'll go and find Senior Enchanter Wynne. Something about gathering nuts in May for some kind of ritual – a Grey Warden ritual, in case you're wondering," she added hastily, in case Ser Carroll got the wrong idea and thought she was conspiring with another mage to summon abominations or…something. However, the mention of the Senior Enchanter's name appeared to have a magical effect on him. His scowl disappeared and she was sure she had seen a small flash of fear before he collected himself. Giving her a magnanimous wave, he stuttered, "O-on your way th-then, mage."

She didn't wait to be told twice.

-oo-

_Hm…_Alyce pondered, hands clasped behind her back as she meandered along the pathway, looking around at the remains of the Tevinter outpost. It wasn't so much an outpost as an entire city, crumbled like old cheese and overgrown with wild woods. _Tall ruined building,_ she observed silently. _Tall ruined tower…slightly unstable, tall ruined bridge…very…long…drop._

Leaning over the edge of the bridge, she could see figures in miniature moving below in the valley. She had heard that the Grey Wardens were planning to draw the darkspawn into the valley, hemming in the monsters to destroy them. Personally, she thought using _people _as bait was a _terrible _idea, especially since it wasn't just the darkspawn that would be trapped in the valley but the Grey Wardens too. What did the General intend to do once the horde had been lured into the valley? Winch the Wardens out? She had seen a darkspawn corpse on her wanderings about the army camp; laid out for inspection by a sharp-faced Sergeant who had been quick to bellow a warning at her when she had ventured too close to it.

It hadn't been…too bad, she recalled. For a Harrowed mage having had experience of demons and other magical terrors, the stocky genlock had not been as monstrous as she had thought it would be, feeling almost sorry for the thing. She wondered why the darkspawn hated humans, elves and dwarves. She knew the story of how the darkspawn had been created – or at least, the Chantry's version of it – and it still didn't explain _why_ darkspawn spent all their lives trying to destroy non-darkspawn. She knew they were mindless, unthinking creatures, but then Alyce had known quite a few apprentices and not a few templars like that. No one had seemed to be bothered by _them_.

A shout below brought her attention back to the valley. Several trebuchets were being hauled into position and even from this distance she could see the lines of sharpened stakes set into the ground. She shook her head, turning away. She didn't want to _think _what would happen to a mabari or soldier that accidentally fell onto one of _those…_

"_Alyce_?"

The voice was familiar. Alyce turned back the other way. She had been about to continue over the bridge to the other side, when her name had been called. It belonged to a slender, robe-clad figure standing immobile at the _tall, ruined gatehouse._

"_Neria_?"

Alyce stared, uncomprehending at the sight. She hadn't been told any more new mages were coming to Ostagar. Perhaps the Knight Commander had relented and allowed the First Enchanter to send more? A wide grin spread across her face as she began jogging towards her old Circle friend, Neria doing the same, crying, "Oh good grief! It _is _you!"

"Oh I'm _so _glad…" Alyce had begun in relief when Neria stopped abruptly, administering a hard punch to her friend's arm.

"_Ow_," Alyce's grin flipped upside down. "That hurt."

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming to Ostagar!" Neria demanded, landing another punch to Alyce's other shoulder.

"Ow!" she cried. "Ditto!"

"Do you want me to punch you in the face as well?" Neria threatened her with clenched fists.

Alyce threw up her hands in defence. "I was sworn to secrecy," she explained. "Wait…" It occurred to Alyce that if Neria hadn't _known _she would be here, then she wasn't part of the official Tower delegation. So…"What are _you _doing here?" Alyce asked, wide-eyed.

Her friend did not answer immediately, instead her face twisted in sadness and…it looked very much like guilt to Alyce's perceptive eyes.

"I guess you'll find out sooner or later," Neria grimaced. "Though you won't…" Neria gave her a sharp look of her own. "You know, on second thoughts, maybe you would believe it. You see…" She took a deep breath. "Jowan's a…" Another breath. "Jowan's a blood mage."

_A blood mage…? Jowan…_The words bounced around the inside of Alyce's head. _Jowan…? A blood mage…?_ She was certainly having problems pinning them down to try and understand them.

"Look," Neria told her gently, taking her friend's arm. "Come with me. It's a long story." She threw a pointed look towards the guardsmen standing at the gate tower. "And as you can imagine, it's not a story that should be told out here. Come on." Giving her hand a tug, Neria led Alyce back to the central area, past the clusters of colourful tents to one less flamboyantly coloured. An impressive bonfire burned nearby, around which four men stood, talking in low voices and warming their hands. The cold in the Korcari Wilds was unrelentingly penetrative.

At their approach, the men stopped talking, one of them staring hard at Alyce, until recognition appeared to dawn. He pointed an accusing finger at her. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "You're that mage that fell down the mountain!"

Alyce started and turned. She too stared. The speaker, she realised, was the young man that the Grey Warden Commander had recruited half a year ago at Redcliffe. By shifting a little, Alyce was able to better see the tall bearded gentleman, partially obscured by the fire. It was the Warden Commander himself, looking as sharp-eyed and stern as before. When he bowed, Alyce felt her cheeks redden. _Grey Wardens…_She tore her gaze away, forcing herself to look at Neria. _Why has she led me to the Grey Warden camp?_ Alyce asked herself, though her mind – as well as Neria's cool expression – had already supplied the answer. Blood mage…Grey Wardens…Alyce was quite sure she knew most of the story her Tower colleague was about to relay to her before she started.

Instead of relaying it however, Neria gave Alyce an odd look. "You fell down a mountain?" she asked. "I thought you fell in the lake."

Alyce raised her eyes to the tall forest far behind the outer walls of the ruins. She hoped Neria wasn't trying to warm her upfor really _bad_ news.

"Both," she said on a sigh. "As I said; it;s a long and tedious story."

Neria was now looking from her friend to the young man. "And you know Alistair?" she asked. _Oh…Alistair…?_ _Is that the name? Nice, if a bit pretentious…_Alyce tried not to look at the blonde man, though it was difficult.

She cleared her throat. "I saw him compete at the Redcliffe Tournament," she explained with a calm that surprised herself. "The Grey Warden Commander enlisted him there."

"Ooh…" Neria's mouth made a pretty 'o' shape. She caused the red in Alyce's skin to deepen by adding understandingly. "_That _trainee…"

"Yes, well." Alyce reached out and clapped both hands over her friend's shoulders. "_So…_" she reminded. "Jowan," she whispered. "Blood mage. _What_?"

The two mages removed themselves a little further from the blazing fire, seating themselves onto a convenient pile of crumbled stone archway. Staring into the flames Neria told her how Jowan had approached her after her Harrowing to introduce her to someone 'special'. That someone special had turned out to be a Chantry initiate; a _bad idea_ for any mage to become involved with second only to involvement with a templar. Alyce knew it happened from time to time. Relationships in such an enclosed environment as the Tower of Mages was both inevitable and…fluid; couples forming and reforming frequently. Most mages avoided entanglements with the Chantry. They were after all, the ones who had insisted on caging mages to begin with. To plan to escape the Circle of Magi _and _the Chantry was…Alyce shook her head in disbelief. And _Jowan…!_ She could lay a bet that it hadn't been Jowan's idea…The man couldn't plan himself out of an open crate...

She hadn't realised she had been daydreaming until Neria touched her hand.

"If Duncan hadn't conscripted me," Neria told her softly. "I would have been sent to Aeonar as well".

Alyce turned to her friend. Since coming to Ostagar, she had learned a little about the Grey Wardens. Probably, a bit more than she would like to…such as this Joining ceremony that the mages had been asked to prepare…Aeonar, Alyce was quite sure, might be the _safer _option…

"Stupid, stupid Jowan," Alyce muttered darkly under her breath. Because of their friend's selfish, reckless actions, Neria's life had been placed in danger. Asking herself what Jowan was thinking was useless. She _knew _the answer to that question. "If the Knight Commander had first-hand evidence he was practising blood magic," Alyce said in a hard voice. "It should have made Jowan more careful, not more reckless."

"I _forced_ his hand," Neria whispered. "If I hadn't gone to the First Enchanter and told him of this plot, we might have all…"

"Have been hunted down and executed," Alyce snapped, angry that Neria should feel she needed to take some of the blame. "_Your _phylactery hadn't been destroyed and it was selfish of Jowan to even _think_ about asking a friend to do what the three of you did. That was not the act of a true friend, Neria." _Bloody idiot Jowan!_

"He was desperate," Neria argued. "He feared being made Tranquil."

"He should have feared turning into an Abomination even more!" Alyce sprang to her feet, pacing in front of the fire, hands clenched in anger.

"He lied to you!" she threw over her shoulder. "He told you he wasn't a blood mage when he was! He deceived everyone, just to get his own way! And now you're about to…" Alyce clapped her hands over her head. She had been about to say, _and now you're about to become a Grey Warden…_The last person Alyce would choose. Neria was a Spirit Healer. While she couldn't blame the Wardens for wanting a mage for themselves, could they not have chosen someone a bit more aggressive? More combative? Someone who could blow things up a little? The elf was barely taller than the smallest darkspawn and she was expected to help the Wardens _fight _these things? Not to mention…

"Neria, don't do it." Alyce gripped her friend's shoulders again. "Don't become a Grey Warden."

"What?"

"Being a Grey Warden is…" Dangerous, risky…people _hated _you, mistrusted you…_Just like a mage…_her brain reminded her. "It's just not for someone like you," Alyce finished helplessly.

Neria extracted herself from her friend's hold, taking a step back. Her chin lifted in that very distinct, Neria-obstinate way.

"The Warden Commander chose me," she stated. "I would think Duncan would know what he was doing, don't you?"

All Alyce could do was shake her head in denial. Arguing against the Grey Warden's decision would only continue to make her look like a conceited fool, but she could not reveal why she didn't want Neria to undergo the Wardens' initiation ceremony. She had been sworn to secrecy. This close to the Warden Commander himself, Alyce had no doubt that he would take steps to ensure she did not reveal anything she should not.

"Neria, I just think that you could do…something else…" It was a weak argument, but words were failing her now.

"Thank you Alyce." The corners of Neria's mouth crooked upwards, but it was a smile without reassurance or humour. "I think you should go."

"Neria…"

The elf simply turned her back on her and walked towards the others. Despite her misery, Alyce could not help but notice the admiring look the young blond Warden gave Neria; or the pitying one the Warden Commander gave her.

Backing away slowly, Alyce turned and silently made her way back to the mages' enclosure, feeling as though she had betrayed her friend as much as Jowan had.

-oo-


	9. Betrayal and Chaos

A/N: A bit of a warning – there is blood and gore and death in this chapter, so if you're a bit squeamish maybe you should wait until a happier chapter.

Also apologies this had taken so long to update. I always have trouble getting my head around Ostagar and General Lo-gone's timely departure from the battle. Nor have I managed to find a song theme for Alyce, though Nick Cave's _Red Right Hand_ does come to mind…

-oo-

**Chapter 9 – Betrayal and Chaos**

Alyce was quite willing to wait it out. For as long as it took she would sit here in the dark, watching the shadows beyond the tent peaks, until she was ready to…stop watching. She hadn't blinked for five minutes straight – her eyes beginning to water under the strain of staying open – just in case she missed something by blinking. Staring into the dark too long however, was beginning to make her see things. The figures that she had been watching weave in and out of the dim patches of light lengthened and coalesced into weird, sinuous, multi-limbed creatures she could no longer recognise as human. She gave her head a shake, jumping when a hand appeared out of the dark to rest on her shoulder. She found herself springing to her feet, the top of her head cracking loudly and painfully on a low hanging branch.

Blue-white light flashed briefly and she felt the slight pressure of magic sweep over her head and shoulders.

"You need your rest child," the stern voice of Senior Enchanter Wynne scolded her.

Alyce touched the top of her head. The bump from the king's helm had yet to recede. Thanks to Senior Enchanter Wynne's timely healing spell, there wouldn't be a bump on a bump now. She was grateful. Sort of.

"I can't imagine why you've chosen to stay up to this ungodly hour," the Senior Enchanter added impatiently. Alyce could feel Wynne's eyes narrow speculatively at her in the dark. "Senior Enchanter Torrin spoke highly of you," she added. "Aiding the king's army is an honour few mages are likely to be granted in their lifetimes, much less one as newly Harrowed as yourself. Youthful energy aside, I hope you don't consider yourself above taking rest like the other mages here."

Turning back to her watch of the figures in the dark, Alyce folded her arms, tamping down her anger. She was tired of people mentioning her Harrowing as though she hadn't deserved it. It wasn't as if she had asked to undergo the test, much less be cursed with magic. She had never considered herself better at magic than anyone else and had certainly never tried to be better than anyone else. She had worked hard; studied when she had been expected to study. Censured or criticised, she took the words of her betters and superiors to heart and made sure she never made the same mistake twice. She had her own opinions but for the most part had kept them to herself, leaving her debates and more heated discussions to sessions with close friends. It seemed…unfair to be thought of as some ambitious upstart with ideas above her station…or whatever the mage equivalent was. She hadn't even aligned herself to any fraternity, though she was beginning to veer more towards the Isolationists.

Or…she told herself wearily; perhaps she was being a tad oversensitive. Worry about Neria undergoing the Joining was eating away at her. She had been careful to be busy at some other task when the Grey Warden Commander had come to collect his poisonous brew. It would have taken too much effort restraining herself from knocking it out of his hands. Of course if she had, Neria might have been saved having to undergo the Joining for however long it took to obtain more darkspawn blood. On the other hand…things might have been _troublesome _for her if she had.

She could have voiced her fears to the Senior Enchanter, but Alyce didn't feel she knew the older woman well enough to _share._ Instead she gripped her arms more tightly and said, "I couldn't sleep. I guess I'm unaccustomed to the noise of so many people."

"The Tower isn't exactly a tomb…" Wynne told her, with barely a trace of humour. "Templars rattling about the corridors at all hours of the night…the doors in the Tower of Magi aren't as thick as one would think."

_Never mind the templars…_Alyce added to herself. The sound of other mages in the room _enjoying _themselves had always been part of the night time ambience, along with the rattle of patrolling templars.

Just beyond the archways of the old ruined temple, the figures stirred. Alyce bit down on an involuntary gasp, resisting the urge to vault over the broken wall and sprint up the hill. A shape resolved itself out of the shadows, but Alyce knew immediately on its approach that it wasn't Neria. It was far too tall and broad for a start, and moved with far more power and too little stealth for her elf friend. It was the blonde Warden, Alistair. Head bowed and walking with purpose, he didn't see the two mages under the tree as he strode past. Alyce looked back into the shadows. Neria did not emerge.

"We have a busy day tomorrow," the Senior Enchanter told her in a voice that informed her debate would not be invited. "I suggest you return to your tent."

Having said that, Wynne steered her towards the main tent. As it would have looked suspicious either resisting or attempting to turn back, Alyce repressed her inner rebel and did as the Senior Enchanter bid.

Inside the tent, she threw herself into the narrow, creaking cot that had been allotted to her. It was far too short and bowed far too low in the middle for comfort, but it wasn't as if she could sleep in any case. Worry and nerves plagued her until the moon ceased to shine through the gaps in the canvas and the sound of nocturnal wildlife replaced the exaggerated silences of people at night trying to be quiet…and failing.

-oo-

The mages were placed at a distance and position where they could deal the most damage, receive the injured and be protected from the heat of battle. A series of repulsion barriers had been erected around the Healers' area and the mages themselves had ranged themselves above the valley. They would be close enough not to render a fireball useless, yet not too close to make a hasty retreat impossible. Alyce wondered whether proximity mattered much in the latter case. Watching the creeping blackness advance from the edge of the Wilds she could very easily imagine being overrun very quickly. The people in their group were Chantry Sisters in wieldy, heavy skirts and 'older' mages in even more speed-restricting robes. If she were a darkspawn, she would certainly choose to pursue the slower cloth-covered humans over the ones encased in inedible metal.

From this distance, Alyce could see the faces of the soldiers. The further away from the centre of brightness that was King Cailan, the more intense the fear. She could see the Grey Warden Commander standing by the King's side, surrounded by the king's own guardsmen and women. She wondered at the king still being in the Warden group. It was foolish, but voicing such thoughts would have been even more foolish. She was no strategist and if the great General had approved the king's presence in the valley, then clearly she must also have confidence in that decision.

She didn't. She couldn't. _This is dumb, dumb, dumb…!_ Alyce stared hard at the ridiculously small numbers of soldiers on the field. The majority of the army was with General Loghain, on the other side of the ridge, hidden well out of sight of the main horde. There were archers, a sizeable contingent of painted mabari, a couple of hundred soldiers, King Cailan with fifty of his gleaming knights and less than a dozen Grey Wardens.

There was no Neria…and no Alistair for that matter. It felt _wrong._

This whole setup; the entire scene – the men waiting grimly in the muddied valley, steam rising from heated bodies, the blackened horizon and the blood-red sky hanging portentously above them all – was _wrong._

Alyce wanted to run into the valley, screaming for them all to return to higher ground, to set the entire Korcari Wilds ablaze and burn the darkspawn as they advanced, but she had heard that the darkspawn sprung from the ground and underground would they return in a retreat.

She doubted whether the darkspawn would retreat today.

The battle horns sounded. The great trebuchets creaked as they were primed and loaded. Anticipation mingled with fear and the scent of damp fur.

The king waited a few heartbeats longer, then at a single gesture, the trebuchets were released; the mages lighting the oil-soaked projectiles mid-trajectory. Alyce could feel the ground shake beneath her feet as the burning stones plummeted into the ground, crushing and burning and scattering the darkspawn. As they fell, more rose in their place; their numbers doubling. The air whistled as the trebuchets discharged their loads once more, the ground thudding as before. There was an awful silence before the king's shout rang out for the archers to release their arrows. Wave after wave scoured the sky and the darkspawn still continued, completely unperturbed by the growing piles of their fallen comrades.

By the time the handlers sent their mabari into the horde, the darkspawn were more than prepared. They had pikemen and Alyce watched in horror, unable to tear her eyes from the sight of mere animals impaled upon poisoned spears…and then the king's small army were set into motion; the two sides colliding with an audible crash midway across the valley.

Alyce's eyes did not leave the field of battle; spear after spear of magic fleeing from the end of her staff. Everything was happening too quickly and she could no longer discern friend from foe in the mess of battle. The thought of one of her spells killing an ally had her focussing her energies on the back of the horde, blasting and freezing and electrocuting. She could feel her magic wane, her head growing light. Reaching into her pocket with her free hand she extracted a bottle of liquid lyrium, downing the entire contents of the tiny bottle without ceasing her casting.

"The hill!" a panicked voice yelled close by.

Alyce hesitated turning her attention closer. The mage beside her jerked backwards, an arrow protruding from her throat. With flames in her eyes and lyrium burning in her veins, Alyce set the ground to molten rock as sharp pain rendered her free arm useless.

"The beacon! The beacon's been lit!"

She had no idea who had spoken. Relief that the General's army would arrive turned to the empty chill of abandonment; cheers turning into curses and cries of incredulity. She could see the remaining mages running along the top of their hill, disbelief branding their faces as despite the horde now being herded – as per the king's careful plan – into the centre of the valley, the General and his troops marched _away _from the field of battle_._ Alyce saw nothing else. A huge shape cannoned into her, knocking the staff from her hands. She sent a freezing spell into the air around her and scrabbled upright, fingers digging into the dirt as she retrieved her staff. She let her feet do the thinking, periodically turning to send a fire spell over her shoulder.

And then the ground decided to disappear from beneath her feet.

An image of dusty Redcliffe flashed briefly in Alyce's mind as the ground rose up to meet her; then hit her squarely in the middle of her face. There were sharp branches and dried bracken and towards the bottom; jagged rocks that had failed to succumb to erosion that tore at her robes and flesh. She came to rest at the foot of a large standing stone, the sound of battle still fresh in her ears and every inch of her throbbing and aching and sore. Gathering her senses, Alyce looked about her in the gloom. She had lost her staff in the fall and she was loathe to go anywhere without it, but there was little choice. Rising gingerly to her feet, she realised she had no idea where to go. If she was in the valley, there would be darkspawn. If she climbed to the top of the hill, there would be darkspawn. If she turned towards the Wilds, well…there might be darkspawn there too…surprisingly.

Hysterical laughter bubbled through her chest. She might as well stand there and scream, "Come and get me, darkspawn! I'm all yours!" Except she didn't. Practicality warred with imprudence and won. She remained silent as she limped through the forest…or at least as silent as a hopelessly lost, clumsy, unarmed mage could manage. She knew she should at least try and find the other mages, but they had moved on and wandering about the blighted landscape was looking less and less appealing, if the idea had any appeal to begin with.

She broke briefly through the trees, crouching behind a moss covered trunk. Before her spread the pitted battlefield, littered with too many bodies. A high pitched cry had her directing her gaze upwards. A winged shape soared above, the beat of wings like a drum beat in the air. A bird perhaps? Alyce had never heard of birds that large before and yet there it was; circling once, twice above the battlefield before it too disappeared beyond the bleeding horizon.

So immersed in the sight of the massive, winged creature was she that she failed to notice the shuffling and snorting to her left until an axe embedded itself in the moss. Alyce sprang to her feet, automatically reaching for a mage staff…that wasn't there; the spell issuing from her lips anyway. Without the focus of her staff, the fire spell bloomed around her, setting everything alight. She heard their panicked, pained screams before a large shape came barrelling through the flames.

Alyce stayed her hand – it was a mabari; its sides lacerated, blood pouring from a deep gash in its hind leg. Without thinking, she peppered the beast with healing spells and it sat beside her gratefully, panting with effort as she sent flame after flame into the forest until she grew light-headed again. Her arms dropped to her sides as she swayed on her feet. As the last of the fire diminished, Alyce fell to her knees, her arm curling about the mabari's shoulders. That had been the last of her magic. The lyrium had gone only so far.

Heedless of the gore and filth and stench of death on the mabari's coat, Alyce buried her face into it and sobbed helplessly.

Under the circumstances, there seemed little else she could do.

-oo-


	10. Out of the Frying Pan

A/N: This chapter is posted with an apology to _Roxfox1962,_ _Enaid Aderyn _and others like me who would all like their very own mabari…hm…

-oo-

**Chapter 10 – Out of the Frying Pan**

"You should guard from over-extending yourself," a familiar, stern voice warned her. "You of all people should know quite well how vulnerable mages become when they are overtired."

Having delivered her statement, the Senior Enchanter moved on, denying Alyce an opportunity to defend herself. Not that she would have attempted to do so. Over the last few days she had become accustomed to being the older mages' whipping boy. Being the most junior member of the Circle present, it fell to her to take the blame if there weren't enough herbs for poultices, if messages had been delivered tardily or if equipment was found to be water-logged and damaged. If Uldred could be believed, it was also Alyce's fault that the battle at Ostagar had been lost…but there were other whispers, far more insidious ones, about how the order of Grey Wardens had conspired to lure the king to his death.

Alyce could understand the despondency, the feelings of guilt and anger and despair in the aftermath of Ostagar, but blaming the Grey Wardens? It wasn't as if any of the Grey Wardens had lived to see some benefit from the king's death and how _could_ barely a dozen men be held responsible when so many here at this camp had seen General Loghain march _thousands of soldiers away _from the aid of their king?

It had been argued back and forth between the mages – Uldred had wanted to return immediately to the Circle Tower to 'prepare'. Wynne and another mage had insisted they stay to render whatever assistance they could to the survivors. Any nobles who had survived certainly hadn't remained, returning to their own seats of power almost immediately after the battle. Those who had been left behind were either too injured or incapable of making any decision about their future, immediate or otherwise.

She could understand how they felt. It had been a struggle but Alyce had become immune to the taint-riddled, blackened piles of the bodies of the dead. The smell had been almost overwhelming at first but continued exposure had slowly stripped away her aversion to rot and decay and the sight of mutilated, bloated corpses awaiting their pyres. People, she told herself, weren't people anymore when they were dead. It seemed as good a way as any to cope with the misery left behind.

For all the death and destruction and terrible cries of the survivors slowly succumbing to the darkspawn poison, nothing had affected Alyce more than the death of the mabari. It had stayed with her at the bottom of the hill until she had mustered enough mana to be able to defend herself. It had led her to Wynne and the other mages and this makeshift camp. But it had not been immune to the Blight disease. No one in camp had seemed to know much about mabari and with so much _human _suffering; few were willing to care about one mabari slowly succumbing to the taint.

Alyce swallowed the lump of grief that had risen in her throat with great effort and stood, shaking out the last of the ashes from her skirt. She didn't know why, but she had felt compelled to collect some of the mabari's ashes; sewing them up into a tiny pouch that she hung from a leather thong around her neck. All she knew was that it felt oddly comforting.

Retrieving the dismally light bag of poultices from the bedroll, Alyce scanned the forest for Wynne's bright head of white, throwing the bag strap over her head and settling it comfortably by her side. She touched the pouch hanging just below her collarbone briefly, before tucking it under her robes and setting forth. Warnings of tiredness aside, there was much that a mage could still do here. She and Wynne were amongst the few that continued to think so. Uldred left the camp the following day.

-oo-

"Idiot…_man_!" Senior Enchanter Wynne followed up this statement with a string of words far more colourful and delivered in a voice far more animated than she had previously. Ser Carroll, who was currently the Senior Enchanter's walking stick, threw a helpless look over the top of the elderly mage's head. It landed on Alyce's unsympathetic shoulders. Uldred was already a day away. At their current pace that gap would set to widen to another day. The Senior Enchanter was hardly in any condition to travel and they were frequently being overtaken by snails and continental shifts.

Alyce wondered at the urgency of both parties. The mages had been at Ostagar nearly a month. She hadn't quite understood why a day or two longer would matter. Surely news of the king's death would have reached the Tower by now. Did the First Enchanter really need to be told by the Ostagar mages personally? _And _if Wynne was so against returning, then why try to chase Uldred down? Shouldn't she have stayed behind as well?

"To put us all in _such_ a position…!" Wynne continued to add rainbow touches to the world of language as she hobbled along. Ser Carroll threw another look at Alyce; pleading with wide, dewy eyes and a pouting mouth. Alyce shrugged. _What am I supposed to do about it?_ She mouthed at him.

_Help…me…! _He mouthed right back at her.

"When I see Uldred next, I intend to give him the full benefit of my opinions…!" Wynne growled between them.

_Do it for cookies…! _Ser Carroll pleaded, eyes filling with forced tears.

"Selfish, self-centred bas…!"

_Please…!_

Alyce sighed and stepped up to the Senior Enchanter's side. She tossed Ser Carroll a look over Wynne's head that warned him he had better deliver on those cookies for this.

"Senior Enchanter," she began. "I've been thinking…"

"Oh, never a good idea for you," Wynne commented peevishly. Alyce rolled her eyes.

"Yes, and you'd be surprised how much it actually hurt," Alyce admitted helpfully. "Enchanter Uldred didn't quite make sense about 'preparing' the Tower," she continued. "What did he mean? Preparing for what? The Blight? Did he expect the horde to continue on towards Lake Calenhad?" Actually, no one seemed to know where the horde had been headed next. Some said they had seen the darkspawn head north-east. Others were confident that having defeated the pitiful humans at Ostagar, they had returned underground to continue to beleaguer the dwarves.

The Senior Enchanter halted. Staring into the horizon she gave a small shake of her head. "Uldred is…" She sent a sideways look at Ser Carroll and pursed her lips, then added. "Uldred is of the opinion that the General was right in _preserving _Ferelden's troops from the horde." As there was no noticeable acknowledgement on Ser Carroll's part to this comment, Wynne continued.

"While he has not admitted this outright, he has certainly made it clear that it would be in our best interests to support General Loghain."

"But the General fled the field!" Alyce exclaimed, earning her a warning to keep her voice down. "We _saw_ him," Alyce added in a quieter voice. "The beacon was lit in time. There was no reason for the General to take the king's troops from the battlefield."

"Hush, child," Wynne scowled. "I was there. I saw the same thing as you. Uldred's motives may spring purely from self-interest. Of that I have no doubt, but what he intends to gain from supporting such a man we have yet to discover."

Squaring her shoulders, Wynne waved her hand, indicating their party continue on. Alyce tossed a worried look towards Ser Carroll…it was completely wasted. The young templar was busy puffing out his cheeks and making _pvrrt! pvrrt! _noises with his mouth. Shaking her head at the mindlessness of templars, Alyce put an arm around the Senior Enchanter's shoulders, encouraging the older woman to lean on her.

With any luck they would reach the Lake Calenhad docks by nightfall.

-oo-

As it happened, the group did not reach the shores of the lake until well after the sun had set. The Senior Enchanter was exhausted by the time the murky, darkened waters of the Calenhad came into view, but her spirits were far from depressed; still burning with righteous indignation at Uldred deserting the sick and dying in the Korcari Wilds. While Wynne channelled her angry energies into convincing Kester the ferryman into leaving his hot pie and tankard of ale to take them across the lake, Alyce wandered down to the jetty. She could sense Ser Carroll's panic behind her at the sudden separation of one mage from his flock, hovering nervously at the grassy edge where land met water, keeping both the Senior Enchanter and the younger mage within view.

Eventually one of the older templars either noticed his distress or tired of his whimpering and strolled towards the lake. Alyce glanced over her shoulder at the templar's approach, knowing what he was about to say before he said it.

"I know" she said. "I should return to the other mages."

"If you know this, then why distress the lad?" the templar asked.

Alyce smiled to herself. She _liked _Ser Ryan. But then, there were few templars she didn't like. It had become good practice in self-preservation. Stay in the templars' good graces and they were less likely to think you were about to turn into a nasty abomination any minute. Of course, being _too nice _to the templars was likely to earn their distrust…and the scorn of your fellow mages.

"It was too much fun watching Ser Carroll's brain twist into a little knot-roll."

Ser Ryan's mouth turned downwards, even as one corner twitched in suppressed humour. "A little cruel, don't you think?" he asked.

Alyce turned back to gaze out onto the lake. Mist was already forming above the surface of the waters; the Tower of Magi an obscene shape in the distance. She shrugged. "This close to the Tower?" she asked. "I would be stupid to run. Besides," she added in a practical tone of voice. "My phylactery has been sent to Denerim. Surely Ser Carroll knows all this."

"Ser Carroll has never been…particularly…good at drawing conclusions," Ser Ryan said carefully.

"Fine," Alyce sighed. "'Don't tease Ser Carroll'..." she said obediently, adding with another shrug. "He owes me cookies anyway."

"What's this?" he frowned. "Cookies?" He'd repeated the word as though it was describing something illegal between templar and mage.

"Oh…uh…" Alyce laughed nervously, "It's a…it's not important – oh! – and there's the Senior Enchanter!" Moving forward enthusiastically, Alyce grabbed her mentor's arm and pulled her gratefully towards the jetty. Kester followed not too far behind, his napkin still tucked into the collar of his shirt.

As the Senior Enchanter accepted assistance from Ser Ryan into the boat, Alyce allowed herself to fall back, bumping into Ser Carroll's breastplate as she did so. She found two armour-clad hands pushing her firmly away.

"You did that on purpose?" Ser Carroll growled at her.

Alyce sighed at him. "Because I find you strangely attractive and I can't resist you, yes," she said in a flat, humourless voice.

"Oh? D-do you?" his eyes widened, his ears mottling red and pink. "That's…that's totally inappropriate!"

"And totally untrue," Alyce added, remembering Ser Ryan's request not to tease his young colleague.

"Oh, thank the Maker!" Ser Carroll clasped his hands as if in prayer. Raising his eyes to the heavens, he added. "For a moment there my life flashed before my eyes!"

Alyce prodded the symbol of Andraste's burning sword on his chestplate with an indignant finger. "Just remember: you owe me cookies!" she warned him, before striding off to join the others. _Bloody templars…! I take back my intent to be nice to them…_

-oo-

The boat ride to the Tower of Magi was uneventful; Kester had a knack for guiding the wide-bottomed skiff across the choppy waters of the lake. There was barely a bump or a jolt and by the time the stone steps of Kinloch Hall came into sight, Alyce was nodding off on Wynne's shoulder, lulled by the gentle rocking of the boat. Ser Ryan helped the older mage out, reaching for Enchanter Avril next. Alyce stayed behind, assisting the templars to unload the meagre belongings the mages had been able to salvage from the Ostagar battle. She must have looked like a pack animal walking up to the Tower, dropping her various loads in the wide curved entry while the others continued on.

She looked up at the high vaulted ceilings and cold grey walls and sighed. It felt…_odd _being here again. She had been barely a month and a half away yet it felt like she had returned after many years to a strange place that had moved on without her. It was familiar and yet not familiar, feeling out of place like a pimple on a beautiful woman's face...Brushing her own grubby face with the sleeve of her tattered robe, Alyce admitted that strangeness or not, there would be hot water and soap and clean clothes upstairs. Hopefully later, there would be a meal and a bed that - if not particularly warm or comfortable - would be at least hers and slightly less lumpy than the ground she had slept on.

She had travelled no further than the main doors to the Apprentice's quarters however, when the Knight Commander pounced upon her, bristling like an angry mabari.

"_You!_" he pointed an accusing finger at her. "One of your friends is a _blood mage_, were you aware?"

Alyce stood her ground, blinking in surprise at the Knight Commander. He looked different. Greyer, more lined and careworn. _When did that happen? _When was the last time she had seen him? Surely it hadn't been that long ago?

Distracted by his appearance, rather than his words or the fact that he was spitting them at her with such venom she should have succumbed to his poison by now, she heard little of what he said.

"Are you listening to me?" the Knight Commander demanded, forcing her back to a more appropriate focus.

"Oh…" she said with a grimace. She paused, rearranging the words in her head, quite aware that delivering them without care would likely land her in a great deal of trouble. "I met Neria at Ostagar," she began. "She told me Jowan practised…"

"That is not what I meant," the Knight Commander cut her off. "What I asked was whether you knew and what kind of involvement you might have had with the blood mage."

Anger made tiny pinpricks of red dance in front of Alyce's eyes as she fought for control. "If I'd known, I would have kicked his arse and turned him in!" she yelled indignantly, fists clenching at her sides. "Blood magic!" she spat. "Since when have I ever been suspected…"

"Knight Commander!" The clanging of armour preceded the arrival of the templar, red-faced and out of breath as though he'd run all three thousand, three-hundred and thirty-three steps from the top of the Tower to the bottom in one single sprint. He came to an awkward stop, taking barely a moment to catch his breath. Wheezing, he gasped, "Trouble, Ser! They've taken over the Tower, Ser!"

Greagoir grasped the templar by the shoulder. "What?" he practically bellowed. "What do you mean 'taken over'? Taken over by whom?"

"Uldred! Blood mages!" the words issued from the templar in impatient bursts as though he couldn't get them out of his mouth fast enough. "There was an explosion at the mages' meeting – and then suddenly there were blood mages everywhere. It's chaos…they've summoned demons…_Maker, _so many dead already! Knight Commander, they're not taking _hostages,_ they're just killing as many people as they can!"

Alyce watched Greagoir's transformation from irascible older gent to grim Commander and soldier as the templar's news was absorbed and analysed. The other templars on guard on the lower floor had moved imperceptibly closer, expectant and anxious to act on their leader's commands. Greagoir gave a single, small nod. Turning, he ran his eyes over his men, cringing only slightly when they landed on Alyce.

"Simon, Bran…remain on this floor," he barked tersely. "Carroll, return to the other side of the lake. Until we find out what in Andraste's name is happening, no one gets in or out of here." He jabbed a finger at Alyce. "You. Stay. Here."

"But…"

"Hanleigh, Ryan…with me. Drain every mage we come across of mana – no questions!"

"But…!" Alyce attempted to follow, to find herself shoved backwards roughly.

"What part of 'stay here' do you not understand, mage?" Greagoir snapped impatiently. "I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue with you." He gestured towards Ser Bran. "If I do not return within the hour, you are to send word to Denerim for reinforcements and a request to the Grand Cleric…" Eyes narrowed, he pinned each of his men with a silverite gaze.

"You speak of The Rite, Knight Commander?" Ser Bran asked.

"I pray it will not come to that," Greagoir sighed. "But we cannot afford to take any chances."

Without another word to Alyce, the Knight Commander and his two accompanying templars strode through the thick doors to the corridor beyond. Alyce waited until Sers Bran and Simon had returned to their post by the main entry. _Blood magic…_Neria's claim of Jowan performing blood magic to escape the Tower suddenly took on an air of long-term premeditation with other like-minded mages, rather than a spur of the moment thing between two lovers.

_Stay here…_

"Not bloody likely…" Alyce muttered to herself before making her decision. Wynne was in there, along with Enchanter – no, _Senior Enchanter _now – Leorah and sweet old Sweeney and Torrin…and _Niall_…her feet moving, gaining momentum. There was a shout behind her, but Alyce kept going. Working up speed she sprinted down the corridors, her boots skidding on the sharper curves.

_No bloody blood mage is going to take my bloody Tower…! _she thought darkly._  
_

-oo-


	11. The Last Dance

A/N: Sorry this chapter has taken so long to post. You'd think being on holiday would give me a few more hours bonding time with my laptop, but alas tiny teddies and the Wot Wots seem to be taking up most of my time, along with J-Drama. Ten hours straight of Kazuya Kamenashi and my brain is no longer my own.

World belongs to Bioware; whose sandpit comes with shovels and buckets. I had to find yet another theme song for poor Alyce, since Uldred nicked _Red Right Hand_ at the last minute (curse him!)_, _so I turned to Bic Runga, and she delivered some moody, introspective pieces that seemed to fit...

-oo-

**Chapter 11 – The Last Dance**

Smoke roiled through the corridors; thick with grease and dust and the iron-rancid stench of magic. Alyce tugged the cuff of one sleeve over her hand to hold it over her nose. Despite the barrier of thick cloth her eyes still burned in the smoke; tears feeling like shards of glass in her eyes. There was something in the smoke that sapped the energy from her limbs and made breathing near impossible, causing her to stop too frequently to attempt to catch her breath. At every step the screams of the mages and templars alike – terrified, confused and maddened – turned her around again and again until she lost her bearings completely. She ran full tilt into a wall, bouncing off only to land in a pool of something cold and sticky she did not want to identify. She knew too well the smell of burning flesh, the sound of people dying…and worse. She thought she'd had enough of this at Ostagar. Never could she imagine that she would experience the same chaotic uselessness here at the Tower.

Organised, controlled Tower of Magi, no more.

Alyce stopped abruptly, suddenly struck by the futility of her actions.

_What in Andraste's name am I doing,_ she asked herself? _This is crazy…I must be crazy. _What could she possibly accomplish? One person? Why in the Maker's name did she not stay downstairs as she had been instructed?

A single scream, close enough to curdle her blood marked someone's approach before something large and bulky cannoned into her, sending her sprawling to the floor. The stench of freshly cleaved flesh, blood and magic assailed her nostrils before whatever it was then landed on her. A sickening crack and crunch, followed by sharp pain blooming along her side ensued. She clenched her jaw against the involuntary scream of agony, forcing down the instinct to heal herself, terrified to perform any magic lest a Templar mistake her for a blood mage, or a blood mage mistake her for anything else.

Despite the storm of battle around her, this was nothing like Ostagar. At Ostagar, she had been free to cast anything she wanted and as frequently as possible. It had been expected of her. In this place – the home of magic - she marked herself if she showed the slightest burble of magic. Every cell in her body screamed at her to restrain herself…and she did…for the moment. The smoke…it was doing odd things to the way she thought. _Mind control? _Was this how it worked? It was certainly not a school of magic either of her mentors had tutored her in. Niall and Torrin had demonstrated more honest ways of causing an apprentice to do their bidding.

_Maker, let them all be alright…_

Her assailant had moved on. Inching across the stone floors like a worm, her questing hands finally found a vertical surface. She lay against the wall, half propped like an indolent sack of potatoes before she mustered enough stamina to get moving again, throwing just the smallest of healing spells at her shattered ribs. Her drastically shortened breath and the bubbling feeling in her throat did not bode well.

The wall buckled a few metres on, giving way to what felt like a doorway to her left. She dragged herself through, hoping she had made it into someone's living quarters. The idea of crawling under somebody's bed and remaining there until everything was over had brief appeal, but would anyone find her afterwards? After this was all…over? _Would _it be over and after it did, what would be left? _Would _there be anything left? Despite the situation she had found herself in, Alyce chuckled at the absurdity of it all, gasping at the wave of fresh pain it brought. _Am I to die here? Under somebody's bed? Bleeding to death? _It seemed a rather stupid way to find her way to the Maker's side.

_But what am I supposed to do? _She had no idea where she was, no idea how to get back to the lower level – and the thought of bumping into one of the blood mages' conjured demons, or worse; a blood mage that was no longer in possession of their own mind was too horrifying to contemplate.

Waiting it out Alyce decided, was also _not _an option.

She raised her hand; blue fire crackling about her fingers, set to try and heal her injuries properly when she heard the sound of running feet – and a shout.

"Andraste's blood! Alyce!"

She peered through the dense smoke. Through tear-reddened eyes she could vaguely make out the shape of the speaker. It was the voice that identified him.

"Niall…"

She tried to stand, using the wall as a prop, but found the exertion too much, crumpling bonelessly back to the floor.

"Here…" Cold ice washed along her side as Niall knelt beside her. One of the other mages – Alyce couldn't remember his name – hopped impatiently from one foot to the other behind her former mentor.

"We don't have time for this!" the mage hissed unhappily.

"Sparing a minute to heal a fellow mage?" Niall tossed over his shoulder. "I would disagree."

"One minute could make all the difference!" the mage countered.

Niall sighed. Bowing his head a little, he conceded the other mage was right, while at the same time helping Alyce to her feet.

"What are you doing?" Alyce asked, her newfound relief at seeing her old mentor and friend shrivelling at his grim expression. "Wh…what's going on?"

"The Litany!" another voice called urgently from behind another tumbleweed of smoke. "The _Litany of Adralla! _And no, dammit, I _don't _have a permission slip to obtain it!" Hurried footsteps heralded the arrival of another mage. Alyce didn't know him either. It seemed there were quite a few Tower inmates she was not familiar with.

"Niall, come and reason with the bastard," this second mage urged. "You're the only one that can. Bloody Owain won't release the Litany to us without _signed permission _from the First Enchanter."

Alyce had been staring at the other mages, trying to remember who they were. At the mention of the _Litany of Adralla, _she looked suddenly towards her former mentor.

"The Litany is an ancient artifact," she rasped at him. "What do you intend to do with it?"

"It'll be a darned sight better than going in against blood mages with the Litany, than with nothing at all!" the first mage snapped impatiently. "Too many have fallen into thrall. Niall, for the Maker's sake, talk to Owain!"

"Right." With quick strides, Niall became lost in the smoke. When he returned, he was holding a scroll of well-preserved vellum in his ink and blood-stained hands. He unrolled the scroll as he approached them, lips twitching as he read. He then handed the scroll to the other two mages.

"Andraste's knicker elastic!" one of the mages exclaimed. "This is complicated!"

Mage number two shook his head as he read over mage number one's shoulder. "Let's also hope Uldred hasn't found a way to counteract this. Irving _did _say he was a master at mind-control." The mage's eyes flicked for the briefest moment towards Alyce. "He'd been experimenting with the apprentices, or so I'd heard…"

"Uldred had been mind-controlling apprentices to practice blood magic, is that what you're implying?" Alyce demanded.

"It is possible," Niall replied calmly. "This many blood mages in a single area? It's unheard of." He turned to the other mages. "We should go."

"Wait, where?" Alyce clutched desperately at Niall's sleeve.

"The Harrowing Chamber," Niall explained briefly. "Whatever is left of Uldred appears to have taken it over as its 'base' of operations."

"That's where the great big bucket of lyrium is kept after all," mage number two snorted. "That much lyrium'll last 'em at least until Winter Feast." _Winter Feast is months away…_Alyce's eyes widened as she made the mental calculations.

As Niall began making his way towards the storeroom exit, Alyce found herself dragged along with him. She still hadn't let go of his sleeve. Niall gently disengaged her fingers from his arm.

"You should stay here," he suggested. "You will be sa…Perhaps you can protect Owain and the other Tranquil."

"What interest would blood mages and demons have with Tranquil?" Alyce asked, feeling stupid and callous for doing so.

"For sport," Niall spat bitterly. "You have no idea what it's like in the upper levels," he added, with a sharp edge to his voice. "Nor would you wish to."

_Could it be any worse than what the darkspawn had done to the king's army…? _Alyce firmly dispelled the images that memory of the failed battle conjured in her brain. _Wait…dispelled…_

"I should come with you," she said suddenly. "I'm good at dispelling magic!"

"Are you any good at dispelling abominations that consume you in a single gulp?" mage number two scoffed. "We are wasting precious minutes, Niall."

"Of course." Gripping her shoulders one last time, Niall looked as though he would have liked to have said more, but the other two mages were already calling for him from the doorway. He instead gave her shoulder a single, awkward pat.

"Be safe," he told her, then turned abruptly. In seconds he was enveloped by the haze and was completely lost to sight, leaving Alyce feeling as bereft as she had when the mabari had breathed its last. It seemed…an…_odd_ comparison to make.

-oo-

_Why didn't I ask to have a look at the Litany myself…?_

The scraping sound on the other side of the room had Alyce turning away towards the wall. Ever efficient, Owain was continuing to clean up his precious storeroom; righting cabinets, sweeping away the glass…dragging the corpses into a pile by the landing. It didn't help that he was steadily building up a trail of body fluids and parts no longer contained by intact skin along the path towards the stairwell. She waited until Owain had collected the offending body part…s, wondering at the eerie calm the Tranquil displayed as he simply began mopping at the bloody trail as though an apprentice had dropped a partially-fermented flask of dandelion wine and not some horrible, pink wobbly bit that used to belong to the _inside _of some hapless apprentice.

_If I had some idea what the Litany was about, I might have a chance outside this storeroom…_

On the other hand, Adralla had been a _Bard, _not a mage…or had she been? Alyce couldn't remember. Could a mage be a Bard as well? Would it have been allowed? How strict had the Chantry been back then? And she was a _terrible _singer – well, not Mage Adralla…Alyce had no idea whether the old Tevinter mage had been any good. Did the Litany need to be sung? How many parts? Was it supposed to be performed _a capella_? Or did it require instramental accompaniment and were there dance steps as part of the recitation? The Last Dance of Adralla of Vyrantium…_I'm not making any sense…!_

Alyce's skin prickled suddenly, as though a swarm of tiny ants had come upon her, biting and stinging. There was little other warning before the far door burned white and disintegrated, outlining shapes that were neither human or animal. Without a single thought, Alyce blasted them apart with a flame ball; the spell going slightly wide without the focus of her staff. She followed it up with a repulsion shield around Owain who, still holding his mop, brandished it high, prepared to defend the sanctity of his storeroom at any cost.

The spell for her own shield came moments too late. Alyce found herself lifted off the ground and thrown against the wall. Crumpled in an untidy heap, the familiar constricting feeling of a crushing prison spell came upon her, even as she struggled to regain her footing. The smell of the abomination had her dry retching; black spots flashing before her eyes, while her mind twisted in her grasp as she tried desperately to remember how to counter such a spell. Her body began to feel light, her vision flickering unreliably. She thought she saw Owain and his mop behind the abomination…and then he disappeared.

_I'm good at dispelling magic…_

The ground hit her with another sickening crunch as the spell holding her dissolved abruptly. This time she did not hesitate, sending an ice storm circling the room. In the white fog of swirling snow, she could make out Owain and his swinging mop as a dark, determined pillar of tidiness. She tasted blood in her mouth as she sent rock fist after rock fist into the icy pillars of abominations, shattering them into piles of bloody gore.

As she lay gasping like a dying fish, overwhelmed by pain, Owain appeared above her. He was frowning; his robes soaked to the knees in blood.

"I would have preferred it if you had taken a less untidy approach," he remonstrated. "But I am not ungrateful for your assistance." He knelt beside her, looking her over with a clinical eye. "You appear to be injured. I must inform you that the stockroom does not carry healing poultices…"

Alyce smiled up at him through her pain. If she survived this to the end of her days she would always be grateful to Owain and his mop brush…Though…surviving seemed a distant target, a little too far out of reach right now. Something else had broken in that last attack and making the smallest movement brought searing agony. She couldn't even pinpoint where she was hurt. She just…hurt.

"Will you be able to stand?" Owain asked her.

"No," Alyce told him, barely able to make the noise necessary to convey the negative.

Owain sighed. "In that case, I must apologise for what I am about to do."

Alyce frowned. "Wha…?" she began, barely registering movement at the edge of her sight as the Tranquil brought the handle of his mop around in a tight curve, striking her sharply on the side of her head. Her eyes flared briefly in momentary shock, before the black veil of unconsciousness shrouded her mind.

-oo-


	12. A Mage's Place

-oo-

**Chapter 12 – A Mage's Place**

_It was a dark and stormy night…_

"Hrm…Nope. Don't like it." It was always a dark and stormy night in Ferelden, unless it was daytime, then it was a slightly less dark and stormy day. _Well then, how about this one…_

_A long, long time ago, there lived an old grandmother and an old grandfather…_

"How long do you intend to stay in there, mage?"

Alyce hunkered down more tightly, or at least as tight as she could, considering moving the slightest inch caused tears of unhappy pain to flood the wells of her eye sockets. She had ignored Owain; his reasonable, calm voice had attempted – at first – to convince her that the danger had passed. When that did not work, he tried another tack. According to him, she could not stay in the storage cabinet forever. Alyce disagreed. She was quite happy and quite willing to stay here until the end of the year…or when she reached her eightieth birthday, whichever arrived first.

"You need healing." The voice was steadily becoming more stern in tone the longer she remained. It was musty in here…and dark…and cramped. It also smelled like mushrooms and old socks, but she _liked _it in here.

She leant her head back against the side of the cabinet, neck muscles screaming in protest. She felt…_awful, _to be quite honest. Niall had healed her ribs and had eased her breathing but her arm and collarbone had been broken after his departure. As for the stubborn throbbing of her head…well, _that _only served to remind her how she came to be in this cabinet in the first place. It had been _Owain _logic. When she had regained consciousness he had explained that without the Litany of Adralla she would have been susceptible to mind domination. If she had been _knocked out, _he reasoned, then loss of consciousness would have removed the risk. He had then stuffed her in the cabinet so she wouldn't be discovered in the stockroom by the roving bands of blood mages and possessed templars.

"Is she still in there?" a new voice, slightly muffled, asked.

There was a long-suffering sigh in response. "I'm afraid so, Senior Enchanter."

"Well, she won't be the first mage that needed to come out of the closet," the second voice said dryly. It was a voice slightly familiar, but the pounding ache above her left eye was distracting her from making the necessary connection.

_Where was I? _Oh yes. _A long time ago, in a country far, far away…_

The cabinet doors opened to a rustle of heavy brocade. A hand touched her shoulder lightly.

"She appears to have sustained a head wound," the speaker said, forcing Alyce to turn her head just a smidgeon, squinting blearily beyond the open doors of the cabinet. "Dear me…"

The voice and memory connected in Alyce's head. "Torrin," she frowned with difficulty, losing her train of thought yet again. She blinked her eyes furiously. "I thought you were dead. Everyone must be dead." _Everyone should be dead._

"Ah, alas for you, I am quite alive," he informed her helpfully.

Torrin must have been doing something to her head. Her thoughts were starting to become less jumbled and random, settling into longer and longer sentences in her brain. _See mage…See mage run…See mage distort into fleshy, bulbous wall decoration…_

"Right," Torrin said encouragingly. "Out you come."

The room appeared to glow warm orange and gold, glittering at the edges. Pain melted away, along with every other feeling. She was light as air. She was a feather. On the wind.

"I was composing my autobiography," she told Torrin, feeling feathery and lightheaded. "I'd almost finished it too."

"Oh?" he asked her. Alyce reached out with her good arm and poked the jumping eyebrow on his forehead. It was funny. "Riveting reading, I'm sure," he added, attempting with little success to avoid her stabbing finger.

"It was very short," she admitted.

"I can imagine."

"I hate the way you wear your hair," Alyce told him, plucking at the neat cornrow braids that adorned his head. "It makes you look like you're wearing a field of demented cabbages."

Torrin sighed. "I must have overdone the spell." He inclined his head to address someone standing behind her. "Could you…? It would be _most _appreciated."

Metallic rattling heralded the arrival of something large and shiny, blotting out the torchlight in the room. It was a comforting sound for some reason; a sound that told her she was safe. As long as the shiny metal was near…and there was a picture associated with the shiny metal. Something long and _something_…what was it? Oh yes. A sausage; sizzling on an open spit…Very festive. As long as the shiny sausage was near, Alyce knew she needn't worry. All was well. All was good.

The ground fell abruptly away from her feet while the world tilted sharply when she was picked up and thrown over a metal-clad shoulder. The blood rushing to her head made it pound anew. She was vaguely aware that the floor appearing to be above her head and the ceiling feet-wards should be the other way around, but there was little that she could do about it…except enjoy the experience.

"Ooh, nice _arse…_" Alyce announced, prompting another heartfelt sigh from the Senior Enchanter.

"Perhaps it would be best if we simply knocked her out again…" the shininess suggested.

"I'm inclined to agree."

"Sausage!" Alyce was able to utter before blissful warmth suffused every cell and then the world as she knew it disappeared altogether.

-oo-

Alyce's sense of smell was the first to return - the sharp tang of elfroot and blood nettle stinging the inside of her nostrils - followed by her hearing. Someone nearby was moaning. It wasn't a happy sound, punctuated as it was by pained sobs. Her eyes were gummed closed and she raised her hand to rub at them. Her arm felt stiff as a newly starched collar as she wiped the last of the grit away. The throbbing in her head had eased and was more of an afterthought now. She touched her collarbone, panic seizing her briefly until her fingers touched the stiff material containing the mabari's ashes, more concerned that she had lost her cloth pendant and its contents than the current state of her injuries. That came next, testing her ability to support herself by propping herself up onto her elbows.

She knew without too much looking about that she was in the Tower infirmary. She located the source of the moaning as coming from a cot across from hers. A young apprentice had twisted his sheets into a tight knot about his body with his writhing. It was only after she looked away, peering curiously at the occupants of the other beds that she realised the apprentice had made far too short a shape under his sheets.

Taking a deep breath, Alyce sat up. Everything that belonged to her seemed to be working fine. _One of the lucky ones…_she told herself, running her fingers along her collarbone. She felt smooth bone under her skin. Whoever had set the bone had done a tidy job. Her left arm was much the same, even if the muscles felt tight and disused. But she didn't need her arm right now, swinging her legs off the side of the cot and rising slowly. She knew from her experience at Ostagar with Senior Enchanter Wynne that a mage did not need to be whole to be of any use. A mage's place was wherever they were needed…or allowed.

"Oh, good…" a voice sighed into view. "You're up. That's a relief."

Alyce stared at the dishevelled young mage. She looked familiar…"You're…" Alyce had been about to say _'One of Wynne's…',_ catching herself before the words slipped out of her mouth. "Petra…isn't it?"

The young woman smiled wanly. "It's good you remembered." Petra gave her head a small shake. "I wondered how much memory you would have retained when you awoke."

Alyce's hand automatically went to the left side of her head. "Owain hit me pretty hard," she admitted ruefully, "but it saved me in the end." She cast her gaze about the room again. "I remember…everything. So…" Turning back to Petra, she pasted as calm and reassuring a smile on her face that she could cobble together. "How can I help?"

The harried look on the younger mage's face lessened slightly as she outlined the list of duties yet to be done, including changing the dressing on the apprentice that had lost his lower limbs. Alyce volunteered to do the actual changing; figuring her Ostagar experience would help her get through the job. It didn't, but luckily there were other things to do to occupy her mind straight after. They were ordinary things; routine things that came automatically to her; grinding herbs, measuring ingredients, washing out distillation flasks, sterilising bandages. By the time Senior Enchanter Torrin found her, Alyce had rolled up her sleeves and was elbow deep in hot, sudsy water, her nose and cheeks red from the steam.

She had been so immersed in what she was doing that when Torrin tapped her on her shoulder, the bowl she had been scrubbing, along with the scrubbing brush flew several feet into the air in an impressive arc of bubbles, landing back into the washing trough to splash both of them. Alyce gripped the side of the trough for a full minute waiting for her heart to stop attempting to leap out of her body cavity via her mouth.

The Senior Enchanter was flicking suds from the front of his robes with a distasteful finger when she had recovered enough to face him.

"Energetic, as always," he commented with dry curl of his lip. "It is good to know your encounter with blood mages, abominations and rogue tranquil has not dented your...enthusiasm."

"You startled me," Alyce told him with a roll of her eye, handing him a dry cloth. He accepted it rather graciously between an elegant finger and thumb, holding it up for inspection before dabbing delicately at his sodden robes. While she waited Alyce leant against the side of the trough, wiping her own hands on the apron she wore. When he was finished, the Senior Enchanter returned the sopping cloth the same way he had accepted it. Alyce was tempted to flick it over her shoulder into the trough with the other things she'd been washing but it occurred to her that the Senior Enchanter probably hadn't deigned to enter the Tower's steaming washroom simply for a social visit for such a casual and offhand gesture.

"So…" she began. "You wanted to speak to me about something?" she asked.

"Actually, no," he told, her. "But the First Enchanter does. To all of us in fact."

Alyce began untying the knot at her back, "So he sent a Senior Enchanter as messenger?" she asked.

"Given the current number of viable mages in this Tower," Torrin pointed out wryly, "are you that surprised?" He sighed, waiting for Alyce to hang the apron on a hook by the washing troughs. "Slim pickings indeed."

Alyce tidied herself as much as she could. She was still in the robes she'd worn when she'd returned from Ostagar. She hadn't been willing to venture beyond the infirmary and servants' areas on her own to find her room and store of robes that weren't torn or frayed. They had even shrunk slightly in the last wash, but Alyce hadn't cared. They were familiar and comfortable, like an old armchair that had been tamed over the years to fit the sitter's bottom perfectly. These robes had seen her through battle. She was quite sure she'd worn them when she'd fallen down the hill at Redcliffe and they had seen her through the recent events at the Tower. In that way, they were kind of…lucky, really (or…_unlucky_, depending on how one looked at it).

"How is the First Enchanter?" Alyce asked, following the Senior Enchanter out of the room.

"As well as can be," Torrin sighed again. "But grateful as we all are to be amongst the living."

He shot her a sideways look. "You are aware Senior Enchanter Wynne has left us?"

Alyce stumbled over this news. She turned wide grey eyes towards her mentor. "She's…she died?"

"No," Torrin lifted his own eyes heavenward briefly. "Not dead. She left with the Grey Wardens."

Alyce stumbled yet again, stopping in the hallway, mouth agape. "_Grey Wardens?_" she breathed in disbelief. "I thought they were all killed at Ostagar!"

"No," Torrin patted her shoulder much as an indulgent owner would a small, stupid dog. "Not all thankfully," he informed her, staring grimly down the curving corridor. "And Irving has promised aid from the Tower to assist the Wardens to combat the Blight. Fulfilment of an ancient treaty the Grey Wardens and the Circle of Magi made in the time of the First Blight, as I understand it." He made a soft humming noise in his throat. "Remarkable that such a document should exist to this time, but the First Enchanter insists it was genuine."

Alyce made no response. Her head was still reeling from the news that Wynne had survived the scouring of the Tower…as well as the information that there were Grey Wardens still alive. It was too much to hope for, believing that one of those who had was Neria. That her friend had survived the joining and then Loghain's abandonment was a thought Alyce was too frightened to harbour. Still…

"These Grey Wardens…" Alyce began tentatively, feeling her intestines twist in anxiety. "Did you meet them? You wouldn't know who they were?"

Senior Enchanter Torrin turned briefly to her, eyebrows raised. "A rather earnest young man by the name of Alasdair and the young mage involved in that nasty Jowan incident," he said.

"N-Neria?" Alyce stuttered, her head spinning too much to correct him.

"Yes. That's the one," he confirmed. "While I am not ungrateful to have another mage survive Uldred's failed attempt at secession, the fact remains that Enchanter Neria _has _been lost to the Wardens."

The two of them had begun climbing the long, slightly slippery stone steps past the Apprentices' level to the floor normally accommodating the older mages. Alyce found she had to stop, bracing her shoulder against the wall for support. Torrin halted too, frowning at her in concern.

"My dear, to ask a rather redundant question: are you alright?"

"I just…need a moment," Alyce whispered, her skull throbbing with the threat of more tears. It was only the presence of Senior Enchanter Torrin that forced her to restrain herself. Crying in front of _him _was unthinkable. _What is wrong with me?_ She demanded of herself._ Aunt Mildred would tell me I've turned into a watering pot…_She startled when she found a hand on her other shoulder; she blinked into tired, ink-dark eyes that regarded her with both kindness and pity.

"Much has been lost, dear girl," Torrin said softly. "The Circle might have been slightly chipped from within, but it remains unbroken. It is up to us now; to show the…what did Niall call them? The _mundanes…_that we are by no means one self-important, ambitious misstep from the Darkspawn themselves."

"That's the Chantry's version…" Alyce said of the description of Darkspawn as being corrupted mages, wiping the back of her hand across her face.

"The Chantry's version is _every man's _version," Torrin sighed. He paused again, this time to push the doors open on the mages' level. "I would consider it ironic – mages battling cursed mages-turned-into-monsters-by-the Maker – except that I _prefer _to think of it as cleaning up our own mess. _Tevinters…_" he growled the last word with a shake of his head. "They _never _learn do they…"

He looked down on her, several steps below him. "Are you ready to continue?" he asked. "It wouldn't do to keep the First Enchanter waiting."

_Of course not…_Alyce started forward with a determined push away from the wall. _Aid from the Tower…Battle against the Blight…_She should have guessed that her involvement in the war against the Darkspawn was far from over, especially considering how horrendous a result the last skirmish with the horde had been. Well, and now Wynne had joined Neria too. Alyce doubted the Senior Enchanter's decision to join the Grey Wardens had been based on a desire to chaperone a pretty young mage outside the Tower of Magi, but an unshakeable will to continue adventuring and to see justice done on behalf of the King and the Grey Wardens. Despite her years, the Senior Enchanter was hardly the type to spend all day reclined upon a chaise longue, a crocheted blanket tucked about her knees.

She and Torrin continued to the end the corridor, past the common rooms and sleeping quarters to the First Enchanter's office. A single Templar stood guard outside, armour polished to a mirror finish. She understood from Petra that the templars had suffered at the hands of their own as well as from the blood mages, but it was clear from the templar's appearance that the Knight Commander still insisted on maintaining high standards of dress and discipline in his remaining men at the Tower.

The templar gave a quiet nod – brief acknowledgement of a fellow survivor – before returning to his silent, statue-like vigil at the door. Torrin entered ahead of her, pulling a chair away from the fireplace but close to the First Enchanter's desk for himself. Alyce looked about the room. Petra was there, conversing quietly with Enchanters Kinnon and Florian. There was a bearded older mage inspecting a curio above the fireplace; someone familiar and yet unfamiliar. Then the First Enchanter entered with another mage – Galwin, or Gavin or something like that, Alyce could not recall – the latter pausing at the door to survey the occupants of the room. The mages were a grim and subdued lot…nor were there a lot of them.

"I thank you all for coming," Irving greeted them all in his ponderous, raspy voice. He too looked about the room. "Has someone informed Enchanter Calise?"

"Oh, begging your pardon First Enchanter," Petra spoke up. "Enchanter Calise is supervising the apprentices and asked to be excused."

Irving gave a wave of his hand. "Of course," he said simply. "Understandable." He appeared to count the bodies in the room, his half-lidded brown eyes giving little of his thoughts away, though Alyce thought she saw a glimmer of sadness, hastily banked. Of them all in the room, the First Enchanter had the most reason to be guarded. He had been the only survivor left in the Harrowing Chamber and he had lost many colleagues and friends to mages he had once trusted. _There are so few of us here…_Alyce sighed to herself, turning to the door. _Surely there must be more to come…_but the First Enchanter continued to address them all, outlining his plans for the Tower and their expected involvement with the battle against the Blight. Niall was conspicuous by his absence and as the minutes passed by, Alyce ceased her watching of the door.

It was clear he wasn't coming back.

-oo-


	13. Vile, Rank and Dangerous to Know

A/N: A really big thank you to everyone who have reviewed, read, bookmarked or just popped in for a hot cup of tea and a scone. I really don't thank you lovely people enough…!

World belongs to Bioware, including the soap on a rope.

-oo-

**Chapter 13 – Vile, Rank and Dangerous to Know**

Sweat appeared to be oozing from every uncomfortable, itching pore on her body. Worse was her head; every hair turning into conductors of perspiration that crept over the top of her skull past her hairline, streaming down her forehead until it met the levees of her eyebrows, where it pooled until overflowing point was reached and then plopped onto her eye lashes. On her cheeks the sweat combined with layers upon layers of soot, ash and airborne grease to form a menacing mask of streaky stripes. She was surprised the templars had not been more tempted to put their Swords of Righteousness to good use on seeing her: it was only because she was in the company of two templars who witnessed her daily transformation from mage to demonic terror that saved her. She was convinced her appearance had startled Ser Cullen into the rather nasty 'episode' the previous week; an episode that had the Knight Commander banish the young templar from the Tower to somewhere less…abominable.

Alyce did not have details of the incident. She had meant to ask Senior Torrin as he had been a witness to the event but her mentor appeared to be avoiding her for now and she was kept far too busy to make any real effort at tracking him down for questioning. Torrin had been the one who had volunteered her assistance in cleaning off the fleshy growths on the walls in the first place. Either he was feeling guilty for tasking her with such a hideous job (highly unlikely), or he was much too occupied himself to speak to her (quite probable).

Mages who had not been at the Tower during Uldred's failed takeover were slowly trickling back. The relatively small number of mages now here were stretched quite thinly through the floors, attempting to set things to rights. While the general cleanup was expected to take only a few months, rebuilding numbers and repair would take many more years. The loss of valuable knowledge and experience on the other hand, was nigh unrecoverable.

Alyce banished her depressing thoughts, gritted her teeth and focussed her energies on the pillar. It was a hot, messy, unpleasant task that left her completely drained of mana and covered her head to boot in filth by the end of every day. She stunk; clothes, skin, hair, everything and despite Petra's very good ointment, the rash she had developed between her breasts and along the top of her stomach would just not go away, adding to her discomfort. The other mages, used to various noxious gases and other foul concoctions, had begun to avoid her in the common and dining rooms and no amount of scrubbing in the hottest, soapiest water she could handle seemed to be able to wash the stink away.

There had been days when Alyce had hated being a mage; being cursed by magic and branded not worthy to be called one of the Maker's children. There had been days when she hated the Tower and its claustrophobic walls and crowded rooms with spells buzzing around their heads and the risk of a stray fireball singeing more than a person's eyebrows to look forward to. There had also been days when she even hated the food; the cook's _experiments. _Instead of serving up perfectly good Ferelden fare that was overboiled, overfried and pummelled into something brown, unrecognisable and unpalatable, they were frequently presented with greens…and reds…and oranges…and little florets of happy things, accompanied by sauces that could only be pronounced in Orlesian or Antivan accents.

Oh yes, she hated being a mage. She hated living in the Tower and she hated the food, but nothing compared with the hate she felt now at having to remove with fire what used to be _people _from the ceiling…and the walls…and everything else. The _smell _as the things lit up, the awful sizzling, crackling sound as it burned and then the horrible moment when she knew, just _knew _when the half-cooked, putrid, festering, oozing bauble would choose to detach itself from the wall/ceiling/doorframe/valuable five-hundred year old artwork by a famous painter and _then_ if the person standing below wasn't quite fast enough…_kersplatch! Blortchhh! Splatterrrrrrrr…Oh Holy Maker, Creator of all things vile and horrible what was that PURPLE bit and howdIgerritoffme?_

"I think this will be enough for the day's work…"

Alyce squeezed her eyes shut wearily, resisting the urge to wipe them with the back of her hand. It would only make things worse – her arms and clothing were be-slimed and spattered liberally with melted flesh-balls. Right now, if she could get away with it, she would jump into Lake Calenhad fully clothed, except that the Redcliffe fishermen would probably complain about the fishkill caused by the toxins released by her impromptu bath.

"We'll continue in the Harrowing Chamber tomorrow," the Templar said, flicking something dire and stringy from his gauntlet onto the floor. Alyce grimaced, leaning her head against her staff, feeling tired to her core and tired of this whole chore. _Oh, wonderful…the Harrowing Chamber…just what I was looking forward to…not._

It was mid-winter in Ferelden and it had taken the better part of _two months _of meticulous cleaning of the Tower's stone, floor by floor to get to this point. It had also been two months since the First Enchanter had promised the Grey Wardens aid against the Blight.

Since then Neria had returned only once to the Tower, seeking assistance to rid a child in Redcliffe of demonic possession. Irving had gone with the Grey Warden party but had returned alone, Alyce learning of the Grey Wardens' presence too late to see her old friend.

The returning mages brought news of the Grey Wardens' exploits around Ferelden. There was also plenty of news about General Loghain too. Some said he had declared himself the Regent, others the King…still others had claimed that King Cailan's widow had been imprisoned, her status as Queen usurped by lesser lords. There were other stories; tales of the dead rising in the east and of the Dalish leaving the forests of Ferelden clan by clan. Alyce had overheard a couple of initiates worrying over the threat to lyrium trade…something to do with Orzammar being closed because of a dwarven crisis. Talk of a civil war between nobles loyal to King Cailan and the General himself abounded…of the Bannorn rising up against the new Regent and his followers. She had also heard of Highever falling; of the Teyrn slaughtered in a single night along with his entire family. His older son and heir had been sent to Ostagar and had not been seen or heard of since. What remained of the Teyrnir and those who lived on the Highever lands, Alyce did not know. It worried her, but what worried her more was the growing number of attacks by darkspawn.

The blight-creep was now clearly visible on the horizon, slowly but steadily forming a chokehold on the country. Many simply chose to leave altogether, heading to the Free Marches or beyond, but there were more than that who could little afford the coin required for such a journey.

"Here…"

Alyce blinked to clear her vision. A pale hand intruded on her depressing thoughts with the presentation of what appeared to be a cake of soap. She followed the hand up a neatly pressed sleeve to an impassive round face.

"I thought this would assist in your ablutions, Enchanter Amell," Owain informed her in his soft monotone. "Tevinter, I believe. Used by Undertakers, it has been enchanted to remove cadaverous odours from funeral establishments."

Alyce blinked some more, taking the cake of soap from Owain. She held it up to her nose and sniffed. It…wasn't too bad actually and seemed to be able to penetrate the constant smell of…the Tower.

"Thank you Owain. That is very kind of you," Alyce told him gratefully, giving the soap another sniff. It was sweet of Owain to think of her like this. Everyone else in the Tower preferred to keep their distance.

"I felt it my duty, Enchanter Amell," Owain continued calmly, deflating her gratitude somewhat. "There have been so many complaints by other mages and templars, that the First Enchanter and Knight Commander bade me procure appropriate…scent removal."

Alyce paused mid-sniff, frowning._ So much for kind gestures…and caring…pah…!_ "There have been complaints about the way I _smell_?" she asked, wanting to know just _who _had been complaining.

"Your bodily odours _are _extremely unpleasant," Owain said almost _thoughtfully_. "This is my objective conclusion, after comparing other odours from my own experiences."

"Objective…!" Alyce's mouth opened and closed pointlessly for a few seconds before she recovered enough to continue. "Compared to what?" She noticed Owain flinch when she stamped her foot and moved closer to the tranquil. _I smell bad do I? Well of COURSE I smell bad…! What did everyone expect? I get covered in putrescent dead things every day…good grief!_

"What about the templars that are with me every day?" she demanded, "Does anyone complain about _them_?"

"The templars have been given permission to bathe in Lake Calenhad," Owain said. "They report that the waters of the lake are at a low enough temperature to freeze most noxious attachments from affected areas."

"I'll give _them_ affected areas!" Alyce threatened – to no avail. Owain simply stared glassily at her, his nose wrinkling slightly in distaste. Gripping the bar of soap tightly in her hand, she stalked out of the room. As she made her way through the Tower, she noticed doors closing, people fleeing…Yet still she continued, past the apprentices' quarters towards the Tower's mighty exit doors.

_If the templars can jump in the blasted lake, then I'm going to…!_

"Maferath's halitosis, Amell!" Torrin's voice exclaimed as she stepped through the steel barrier doors into the ground foyer. "Must you transport your malodorous miasma through the Tower? Have you no consideration for the comfort of others?"

"I'm going to jump into the lake," Alyce announced, taking a step forward…and finding she could go no further. Her mind rebelled instantly, dispelling the Senior Enchanter's paralysis field with an audible fizz. Her foot hit the floor and she wobbled slightly, while Torrin's eyebrows shot upwards.

"Oh, very impressive…" he told her appreciatively, "but not the point. You cannot swim in the lake. You'll freeze to death."

"The templars are allowed to!" Alyce pouted petulantly.

"And if the templars jumped off a cliff, would you do the same?" Torrin posed the question dryly. Alyce stared at her mentor, considering his words.

"Is it…a very…high cliff?" she asked eventually.

"You really do not understand the concept of the _rhetorical _question, do you?" Torrin sighed. "No," he added firmly. "I simply insist that you do not go anywhere near Lake Calenhad, if for no other reason than an attempt to protect the delicate balance of an aquatic environment already under stress."

"Ah-ha!" Alyce jabbed a finger at him. "So it _is _true! The Tower does throw dodgy potions in the lake. I knew there was a reason why a tournament is held every year for the fish caught with the most heads…" Waving clenched fists, she addressed the ceiling, "It all makes so much _sense_!"

"I deny and deplore the notion of such a vile act of environmental vandalism," Torrin sniffed self-righteously, his ensuing expression indicating he wished he hadn't taken such a deep breath around her. Blinking furiously through stinging eyes, Torrin added in a strained voice. "I implore you Enchanter Amell – if you have any humanity in you; any humanity at all…!"

Alyce rolled her eyes. There was a sparkle in the Senior Enchanter's bloodshot eyes that told her he was enjoying making a spectacle of them both far too much. Clearly, he did not agree with the templars befouling the lake with their daily cleansing, but Alyce was desperate. She understood now why no other mages had stepped forward to relieve her of her duties or even offer to share them. The threat of social ostracism was clearly too much of a disincentive.

"But," Alyce's pout curved downwards. "What if I promised to make only a _few_ fish slightly cross-eyed?" she offered. "The water from my bath is just going to end up in the lake anyway."

"Oh?" Torrin's eyebrows jumped; all pretence of outrage gone. "Did Owain give you the Soap of Wonder?"

"Soap of Wonder?" Alyce frowned.

"We 'wondered' whether it would actually work," Torrin sighed. "Perhaps we should have called it The Soap of Hope."

"On a rope?" Alyce offered.

"I think you should stop there, young lady." He gave his head a shake. "Soap on a rope? What an absurd notion." Absurd perhaps, but Alyce could see he was giving this concept serious consideration. Torrin may _claim _to be an Aequitarian, but there was a Lucrosian in every mage…

Alyce waited a couple of heartbeats more before speaking again. "So…swimming in the lake is still out?"

The Senior Enchanter merely looked darkly at her. He was saved from a response by the great Tower doors swinging open. A swirl of frigid rain and leaves brushed the stone floor, setting down a welcoming layer for the templars that entered. There were five of them in close formation around a hunched, dark figure. The templar at the head of the group wore the red sash of the Redcliffe Chantry. Confusingly, Torrin immediately stepped in front of Alyce, turning his back on her and deliberately obscuring her view. The rattle of armour echoing off the stone walls heralded the arrival of a contingent of Tower templars; the Knight Commander's voice booming in greeting.

"Knight Commander Harrith," Greagoir brushed past the two mages, gauntleted hand extended. "We expected your party earlier."

"We were delayed by bad weather," the red sash-wearing templar explained. The Redcliffe Knight Commander indicated the bowed figure behind him. "The maleficar; as promised."

The templars parted to allow Greagoir better view of their charge.

"And you say he came willingly?" Greagoir asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

"He has made his confession," Harrith confirmed grimly. "The use of blood magic to escape the Tower of Magi; involvement in attempted assassination…aiding and abetting in concealment of an apostate which in turn resulted in the deaths of hundreds of innocents."

Alyce craned her neck around the Senior Enchanter's shoulder, the better to look at this despicable criminal. The shivering shape with matted hair and torn, blood-stained robes looked too weak and drained to have ever been powerful enough to have done all the things Harrith had listed, but she knew better than that. Many _chose _blood magic because it was the only way to be a powerful mage. The problem with blood magic was that - quite apart from the ease of demonic possession – it was a school of magic that was not kind to the user. There was no balance with blood magic. It took and took and took until nothing was left to take. The use of life to support magic was…it never made sense to Alyce. It made her skin crawl, knowing what blood magic could do; knowing what it _had _done to the Tower.

"You had a chance to live as a tranquil," Greagoir growled at the silent figure. "Instead you chose a course of action that has damned you in the eyes of all. You have brought disrepute to the Circle," the Knight Commander continued. "Your sentence then was death…as it is now." Turning aside, the Knight Commander gestured at his own templars standing by the entry to the Tower proper. "Take him to the holding cells," he commanded. "The execution will take place this evening."

Greagoir's men surrounded the figure, herding him not towards the doors to the apprentices' quarters, but to the shadowy, smaller door set unobtrusively behind a tall screen of stone fretwork. The group passed by them; Torrin flinging a protective arm across Alyce, as she tried once again to step out from behind the Senior Enchanter.

"Alyce…be still…" Torrin warned her in a quiet voice.

"But he…" Alyce began, her words shrivelling in her mouth when the head of matted hair and filth jerked up at the sound of her voice. The figure stared at her with ice-blue eyes that were cold and unfamiliar and yet as recognisable as her own face.

_Jowan…_

His cheeks were sunken and bruised; the skin under the dirt and grime mottled purple and yellow. His nose looked wrong, as though it had been broken at some stage but no one had bothered to help him heal it. Jowan had never been good at healing magic…He had always relied on Neria and herself for the cuts, bruises and random lacerations obtained during the course of learning their craft. _Tranquil, _the Knight Commander had said. For all the emotion in Jowan's eyes, he might as well be tranquil now. He was no longer the friend she knew, but an alien entity, drained of vigour, character and the will to exist. Was that a by-product of blood magic, she wondered? Or the result of his experiences these past months?

_What have you done, Jowan…?_

She would be left to the end of her days with this question and more. The templars closed in around him and he was shuffled away. As they reached the door to the cellars, Alyce thought she heard sobbing; too faint to be sure. She didn't think it could be a templar…

Senior Enchanter Torrin's voice broke the uncomfortable, tense silence left behind by the departing templar group. "Return to your quarters, my dear," he suggested; voice barely above a whisper. "There is nothing more we can do today."

-oo-


	14. An Old Legend

-oo-

**Chapter 14 – An Old Legend**

"Maker damn this!"

The exclamation, followed by a loud, angry clang as the templar helm was hurled against the wall made Alyce and the others jump and turn towards the source of the noise. The helm had belonged to Ser Grantham; the undignified removal of a piece of official uniform earning him disapproval from the only other templar in the room. Alyce could feel Ser Wardley's frown without looking at the man – Wardley himself did not wear the regulation issue helm as it was optional - but Grantham did not seem to care or notice, roughly pulling a chair upright and throwing himself into it. He passed a hand over his face, muttering, "Andraste's spitting blood, I've had enough of cleanup duty…" He then made more mess to clean up by shooting a gob of spittle over the side, narrowly missing Alyce's boot.

The younger Ser Wardley retained a wary but rigid stance by the shattered remains of a lectern. The templar corpses had long been removed from the room, but the burned outline of their last moments remained etched upon the wall. Alyce tried to avoid the sight, but her gaze kept – inexplicably and stubbornly - returning to it. Even more inexplicable was Ser Grantham's sudden outburst. The Harrowing Chamber had indeed been as horrible as everyone had expected, but at least they had had assistance from some Tranquil this time. Randall and Marcus and…Keilli, whose pleas to have her 'cured' of magic had finally been answered by having her connection to the Fade severed. The First Enchanter had agreed reluctantly, in his mind crossing out yet another name from the list of mages able to assist in turning back the Blight.

"Mage…" Grantham addressed Alyce suddenly. "You were in Ostagar, were you not?"

Alyce paused again in her floor scrubbing, warily looking over her shoulder at the templar. There had been something else in the tone of his voice that made her feel uneasy.

"I was…" she nodded slowly.

"And is it true," Wardley surprised them all by speaking, "that the Hero of the River Dane deserted the field and our King?"

"That's ridiculous!" Grantham scoffed, "You don't honestly believe that old woman's gossip do you?" The older templar returned his gaze to Alyce, causing her to squirm in discomfort. _What is this about?_ She wondered.

Grantham's armour rattled as he shifted in the chair. "The General faced _thousands _of Orlesians during the war and defeated them," he said, with a curl of his lip. "You think he'd be afraid of a few _monsters_ from the Wilds? He wouldn't have left the King's side unless he had good reason. These…Grey Wardens…" He continued, eyes narrowing on the words. "One of them is an apostate, the other a failed templar…Why did _they_ survive and not the others? They have been branded traitors and criminals and now you mages have joined their cause. What does that make _you_? Why should I believe criminals over the man that saved Ferelden?"

"Loghain supported Uldred," Alyce reminded them both quietly. "If it hadn't been for the Grey Wardens, this Tower would have been lost."

"This has nothing to do with Grey Wardens, _mage!_" Grantham exploded from the chair with a roar. "Mages destroyed this Tower and by the Maker's will we survived, never mind _Grey Wardens!_ I don't know whether you noticed," he growled, towering over her. "But there appears to have been more templars left over than mages. What does that tell you?"

Confused by Grantham's angry outburst, Alyce could barely think of a handful of answers; none of them particularly repeatable, given Grantham's dangerously glittering eyes and the amount of warning spittle flying liberally from the corners of his sneering mouth. What could she say? Did he expect her to lie? The mages had been placed where they could be granted the best vantage point for both offensive and defensive measures in the battle. It had been clear that the General had the numbers. There had been huge numbers of darkspawn yes, but considering how many the Grey Wardens, the King and his men had been able to despatch before their untimely deaths, it hadn't seemed – at the time – an impossible task for the larger army to enter battle…and even win.

But Alyce was no military tactician. Her presence at the main battle and a few skirmishes with darkspawn since hardly made her an experienced veteran. Up against someone like the General she had no leg to stand on. How widely had it been known that Uldred had attempted to convince the mages to side with Loghain when this whole thing started? There had been few templars present at the meeting…_What is Grantham trying to get at? Is there a point to all of this?_

Ser Wardley had taken a tentative step forward, placing a hand on the older man's shoulder. Grantham whirled about so fast, neither had time to blink; Grantham's arm slamming into the other man's chestplate, sending him stumbling backwards. Then Grantham drew his sword, swinging it around to point at Alyce's throat. Wardley lunged forward again, only to have the pommel of his colleague's sword smashed into his face. Alyce sprang to her feet at the sound of shattering cartilage and bone, the words of a healing spell passing her lips.

Nothing happened. Without her noticing it, Grantham had drained all of her mana.

Grantham reached out with his free hand and grabbed at Alyce's robes, jerking her forward roughly. There was a distinct tearing noise.

"Andraste's flaming sword, you stink!" Grantham spat in disgust.

Hand over his face and blood pouring down his chin, Ser Wardley attempted again to reign in his fellow templar. "Ser Grantham, the Tranquil!" he hissed in warning.

"I'm supposed to care what those empty boxes think?" Grantham scoffed, tossing an uncaring look over his shoulder at the two Tranquil standing by. One of them was Keili; wide-eyed and open-mouthed out of habit, rather than real apprehension.

"But she's filthy," Wardley protested feebly. "Surely you don't intend…"

"She cleans up well, this one…" Grantham's mouth tilted upwards in a cold, mirthless smile. Alyce frowned. Had there been part of Grantham's visit to Insane World that she had missed somewhere?

"And it's all the same in the dark, anyway," he added, confusing her some more. _I've definitely missed something here…Wait…what did he mean 'all the same in the dark'? Of all the…! _The pieces finally came together in Alyce's head. Topic leapfrogging had certainly not helped her reach her conclusion. Skin prickling in fear, she stared at Ser Grantham, knowing the Tranquil were in no position to assist her should he carry out the threat simmering behind his blue gaze. Magic was out, clearly, seeing as she didn't have any at present, but as she continued to maintain his gaze, she could see the flicker of disparate emotions cross his face. He had not been at Ostagar with his comrades and he had been one of the Templars that had remained with the Knight Commander when the Tower barrier doors had been shut and locked…and yet he had been faced with the mangled corpses of those he had been forced to leave behind since…

Alyce's mouth opened and the words simply spilled from her lips. "I am not worth your trouble, Ser Grantham," she heard her voice say unnaturally calm. "I am a mage."

A crease appeared between his eyes. They clouded over briefly, his head jerking back as though waking suddenly from deep sleep. His hand fell to his side, the sound of his sword striking the ground abnormally loud in the tense silence that followed Alyce's statement.

"Yes," Ser Grantham muttered. "You're worth nothing," he agreed. "Filth and refuse…" His voice sounded distant, disconnected. "That's all you are. The whole lot of you."

Ser Wardley reappeared behind Grantham's shoulder. "We're finished here, Ser Grantham," the younger man said quietly. "We should head back to the lower levels." Before stepping away, he touched the older templar's shoulder briefly. Ser Grantham turned as though led by strings, his sword and dented helm completely forgotten behind the departing templars. The iron doors boomed shut after them. For a moment Alyce thought they might all be locked in, but try as she might to listen for the sound of a key turning, all she could hear was her own heartbeat, hammering on the inside of her ears. Her knees finally gave way; Alyce fell hard onto her backside, the back of her head hitting the stone. She remained prone, staring at the painted ceiling until her limbs stopped trembling and she could breathe properly again.

A soft shuffling noise on the other side of the room suggested the Tranquil had deemed the danger over and continued their work. The shouting over, it was business as usual.

-oo-

A clang of metal behind her; Alyce startled, her shin catching the rim of the bucket. Dirty water sloshed over the top, freezing midair before it could hit the newly cleaned hall rug. She turned, finding it was only a Tranquil, pushing a metal cart from one room to another. It was ridiculous to be this jumpy, Alyce told herself, especially when she had never been this nervous in the Tower before, flipping the frozen water back into the bucket. _This is my home, dammit! I've been here for more than a decade, for the Makers sake…!_ Wiping her suddenly perspiring forehead with her sleeve, Alyce took a deep breath and continued.

She had not seen or heard from either Ser Wardley or Ser Grantham since the incident in the Harrowing Chamber. She didn't know what she should expect exactly…a warning from either templar not to speak of it, perhaps? An apology? No, she never expected an apology and in truth, she didn't think she needed one. She felt sorry for Grantham. Like Ser Cullen, he must hate all mages…but was there a single templar in the Tower that _didn't _hate mages now?

"Ah…Alyce…"

She was not as quick this time with her freezing spell, surprise making her lose her grip on the bucket handle altogether, along with her balance. Her foot caught the underside of the bucket; momentum sending her sliding along the rug. Dark, foul-smelling water washed over the stone, soaking her robes to her waist. There had been _bits _in the water.

"I can honestly say I have never met anyone as left-footed as you, Enchanter Amell," Torrin's amused voice said near her hand.

Alyce rose gingerly to her feet, grimacing at the mess of floor, rug and her robes, wondering if there would ever be a time in her life when she would stay mess-free for at least a day.

"You startled me," Alyce said in her defence, plucking at her sodden robes with a sigh.

"I don't see how I could." Torrin shifted slightly to avoid the spreading pool of dirty water. "I am sure I made ample noise in my approach, not being an adept in the art of stealth and subterfuge."

Alyce picked up the bucket, surveying the mess with a dismal eye. _I'm going to have to clean this all over again. Bleargh. _

"You?" she sighed unhappily. "Subterring fuges? I have trouble imagining that." She looked up and wasn't disappointed. As expected his right eyebrow had begun its habitually sardonic ascent on his forehead.

"I doubt it," he said emotionlessly.

"Well, all _right_," she straightened her shoulders. "Did you want me for something?"

"As always," Torrin told her, "no. It's Irving again." The eyebrow descended to a less disapproving altitude. "Clean yourself up and meet me in Irving's office as soon as possible." He began to walk away, halting briefly. "Oh and if you happen to arrive before I do, _please_ knock before you enter. When I left Irving's office to find you, the Knight Commander had just arrived with another of his personal storm clouds."

After Torrin left Alyce surveyed the mess on the floor once more. She would have to let Owain know she would come back to clean this up...Or else he would be very…bland at her.

A quick change into relatively dry robes in her quarters and ten minutes later, she had passed the laboratory adjacent to the First Enchanter's office, when the sound of raised voices had her ears pricking. She rounded the corner, finding Torrin standing to the side of the door to Irving's office. He lifted a finger to his lips in warning. The door was slightly ajar – Torrin nudged it gently with his foot, opening it another inch or so. The Knight Commander's voice blasted through the wider gap, the wood of the door frame rattling as the Tower's senior-most templar hit something large but sturdy in the office.

"…not so complacent, Irving! The Chantry cares little whether or not the woman is titled…!" Alyce heard Greagoir's armour jingle. He must have been pacing. She looked to Torrin for clues, just in case he might know what was being discussed, but he appeared to be riveted by a gouge in the wall opposite.

"…harbouring a maleficar!" Greagoir's bellow brought Alyce's attention back to the occupants of the office. An unintelligible drone ensued, indicating the First Enchanter was making his response. Another thump of metal on wood sounded, following by something ceramic falling and breaking. "The Chantry will _not _stand still on this!" Greagoir shouted again. "Mark my words," he continued. "King's uncle or not, the Grand Cleric will have her blood!"

The door was yanked open violently. Alyce sprang back as the Knight Commander appeared in the doorway, his forehead folded into multiple angry creases. He growled briefly at Alyce to move out of the way then swept past, jangling down the corridor to the stairwell.

"You can both come in now," Irving called from inside. Torrin entered the office, but Alyce lingered, staring at the departing Knight Commander until he disappeared around the curve of the wall. When she entered, Irving was chuckling to himself. It was well known that the First Enchanter enjoyed his daily sparring with his Chantry counterpart. Today was obviously no exception.

"Have her _blood_," Irving repeated with a humorous shake of his head. "Given recent events, a poor choice of words, Greagoir…Ah Alyce, do close the door," the elder mage's eyes flicked drolly towards the Senior Enchanter. "_Properly_ this time."

Alyce obediently turned the key in the door, wiggling the handle to make sure the door was secure. In the meantime Irving collected the broken pieces of what had been a tea cup and saucer. He held the largest piece up to the lamplight. It was translucent bone china, wafer thin and very old. Irving clucked his tongue sadly, tossing the piece into a small metal bin he extracted from behind his desk. "Belonged to my mother, apparently…Hideous, but it did have history and the set is ruined…dear me." With a final sigh, he returned the bin under his desk and waved at both of them to seat themselves. While he ambled over to the largest of his bookshelves, Alyce and Torrin made themselves comfortable.

"I shall have to hold Greagoir to replace it however," Irving murmured, running his hands along the side of the bookcase. "It's the third set he's broken this year." The wood glowed with curling symbols along its grain…there was an audible click and Irving straightened, reaching to the other side to grasp the edge of the bookcase. "I was hoping my mother's set would last a few more months at the least, before it too succumbed to one of Greagoir's tantrums."

Torrin's eyebrows twitched. Alyce covered her mouth with her fist, stifling the unladylike snort the word 'tantrum' in relation to the Knight Commander provoked.

"I shouldn't blame the man, I suppose." Irving gave the bookcase a tug and it swung away from the wall as though it were made of air and not solid wood, crammed full of heavy books. Behind the bookcase, set into the stone was a small, square door. Irving brushed his fingers across the front, muttering under his breath, then pulled on the ring-shaped handle. Alyce stretched her neck around Torrin's bulk to see what was in the wall safe, but Irving stood squarely in front of it, the better to remove a large, wrapped object from inside.

"When politics and magic mix, it becomes rather explosive…" Irving sighed, closing the door on the safe. He nudged the bookcase back against the wall with his foot. "In this instance however, the Arlessa will most likely have her way." He handed the bundle to the Senior Enchanter who accepted it with a slightly bemused expression.

"The Arlessa?" Torrin repeated. "You speak of the Guerrin lad?"

"Yes." Irving continued his slow amble to the other side of his desk, sinking into his well-worn chair with a sigh. "Greagoir's argument that the boy's history with possession makes him even more vulnerable, is perhaps a valid one. The fact that one so young could make such a contract with a demon is proof of the lad's danger in Greagoir's eyes, and not a measure of his talent for magic."

_The Arlessa…? Guerrin…? _Alyce looked from the First Enchanter to Torrin.

"Redcliffe?" she blurted, thinking those rumours about the walking dead across Lake Calenhad were clearly true. "Arlessa Isolde? But she _hates _mages – how could her son be…? Andraste's smouldering sunhat; _that _must be embarrassing!"

"Yes," Torrin threw an exasperated look at her. "Very sensitive, Alyce…" He turned to the First Enchanter. "And the boy? Will he not come to the Circle? Surely even the Arl would not seek to have the boy trained outside the Tower. It would set a dangerous precedent. The Arlessa defying Chantry rule seems…out of character."

Alyce blew a raspberry, earning her another censorious glare from the Senior Enchanter, but she didn't care. "Beh, so much for being _pious…_" she told them.

"The Arl in any case is in no condition to make his case…" Irving told them. He then explained the situation at Redcliffe; of the Arl of Redcliffe's poisoning – by Jowan's hand, no less – and the events that occurred there. As he spoke of the Arl's sickness, Connor Guerrin's possession and the ravaging of Redcliffe, a dark picture grew in Alyce's mind. Central to the piece had been Jowan, who might have fled the Tower, but could not escape his own character. She could imagine him, piling wrong after wrong on top of each other; like a gambler who – having made one loss too many – continued to make 'one last bet' to try and make up the loss of the last, only to fall deeper into debt. She had not asked to speak to Jowan. Even had she been allowed, she would have struggled to find something to say to him.

_Porridge with too much sugar in it…_Alyce mused, clinging to the memory of the talkative, thin lad with greasy black hair…and not a desperate blood mage. That blood mage had killed her annoying, cloyingly needy friend and took away one of the few people in her life not afraid to tell her she could be a donkey's arse sometimes…

"Damn…" she muttered under her breath, eyes stinging suddenly. She blinked furiously, ducking her head to focus on the pattern on her robes. She hoped neither Torrin or Irving noticed her red eyes or the fact that she had developed a sudden case of winter sniffles. In fact both men had finished discussing the events at Redcliffe and had moved on to another topic.

"…not entirely," Irving's voice punctuated the air. "Thanks to Niall…"

Alyce's head jerked up at the mention of her former mentor's name. Torrin had begun to untie the bundle in his lap, the protective wrapping falling away revealed an object that caused him to utter an uncharacteristic exclamation of delight.

"Maker's breath! He finished it?" Torrin began rifling through what looked like a collection of densely packed parchment. It was unbound; some of the pages had yellowing edges, but for the most part, appeared of recent origin.

"This," Torrin shook his head in disbelief and awe. "This is…_impressive._"

"The loss of Enchanter Niall is a great loss to the collective knowledge this Tower once possessed," Irving said gravely. "That collection," he jabbed a bony finger at the pile, "represents a great body of work that we are unlikely to see for some time."

In spite of the struggle to compose herself, Alyce craned her neck, curious. If anything, it was a distraction from Jowan…and Neria, who had allegedly been sent on a pointless mission to find the Prophet Andraste's famed ashes to cure the still-unconscious Arl of Redcliffe. She wiped her eyes and moved her chair closer to Torrin, peering at the pages while he perused them. The script was strangely familiar, but she could not read it, nor could she remember where she had seen something similar before.

"Also unfortunately," Irving huffed unhappily, "the original appears to have gone missing. I believe…stolen."

"Stolen?" Torrin enquired. "By whom? Surely Uldred had no idea the book existed…Niall was a careful scholar. If you had not mentioned the book to me, he would never have discussed the work he had undertaken."

"Not Uldred," Irving said, clasping his hands together and resting them on his cluttered desk. He leant forward slightly. "The owner of the book."

Alyce had never seen Torrin look so surprised. She didn't think he was capable of such an expression. Nothing surprised Torrin – and yet the look of shock on the man's face would have been funny if it had been any other mage she knew. Instead, it made her apprehensive.

"You're sure?" Torrin's eyes were wide, hopeful of an answer in the negative.

"Or her agent," Irving mused. "A shame you did not meet the very interesting young lady that accompanied Enchanter Surana the last time she visited the Tower," Irving added conversationally. "In fact," Irving said with a small smile. "_Two _rather intriguing young ladies; one I suspect with a very fine talent for picking locks on storage chests…the other for…rather ancient magic…"

Alyce found herself under unexpected scrutiny by both the First Enchanter and Torrin. Why, she did not know. It was…creepy, actually.

She raised her hand, much as she would in a classroom. "One question," she said. "Niall's work? Interesting women? Stolen books? Ancient magic? What does all that mean?"

"That was five questions actually, by my count," Torrin pointed out dryly. He looked towards the older mage. "First Enchanter? I believe you have the floor."

Irving's smile widened only slightly, his attention continuing to unnerve her.

"Tell me, Ms Amell," Irving said. "How much do you know of the Legend of Flemeth?"

-oo-


	15. Secrets of the Wilds

-oo-

**Chapter 15 – Secrets of the Wilds**

The words blurred on the page. Alyce squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, rubbing at them with an inky knuckle. She didn't realise it at the time, but she had just smeared black ink across her eyelids and half her forehead and so wondered why her eyes stung when she reopened them.

_I can't do this anymore…my brain hurts too much…_

Sliding southwards in her chair, Alyce flicked the quill off the end of her designated pile of papers, resting her neck on the curve of the chair back. Across from her, the Senior Enchanter was engrossed in a lengthy chapter, lifting an elegant finger to tap his lower lip thoughtfully. Alyce watched him from beneath lowered lashes, struck for some reason by his profile. She hadn't even noticed until now that he bore a scar running from just under his right ear all the way down under his goatee. It must have been healed by someone very skilled; all that remained of what must have been an impressive injury was a vein-thin line of white tracing his swarthy skin. He had a rather…square jawline…for a scholarly mage who'd spent most of his life within the walls of a stone tower…and – _hm, nice ears_…_Wait, _Alyce's thoughts froze, appalled. _What am I thinking!_

"Have I for some reason," Torrin said without looking away from the parchment in his hands, "failed to remove a bit of breakfast from my face? Grown an extra head perhaps?"

Alyce felt her cheeks warm. "No Senior Enchanter…" she murmured, embarrassed.

_Idiot…!_ Her inner voice chided her. She sat up, taking up the page once more, but the words would not stay still, dancing in front of her eyes in merry loops. Niall had spent months painstakingly copying the original book – including diagrams - and then _years_ deciphering it. Unfortunately he had written his translations in one of the lesser known Tevinter ciphers. She could understand _why_ he had done it. She just could not understand _any _of it…

Her mind rebelling with the threat of a headache, Alyce gave in and slumped across the parchment, her left leg bouncing restlessly under the desk. Torrin emitted a soft growl; an early warning his patience was wearing thin by her antics. He remained straight-backed in his chair, but he angled the page so that it obscured her. At the very least he didn't have to _watch _her not taking this seriously.

Alyce tried again to read the paper, pulling it out from under her cheek and, still resting her head on the desk, held the parchment up to the light. There was a word that repeated itself over and over on the page, but there was something about it that kept resisting being read.

She knew whatever had been contained in these pages had been gathered over a lifetime…several lifetimes, in fact. The original script had been written in different dialects of Alamarri and later, Avvar – the direct copy of the original was what held Torrin's attention so closely now. Alyce had been given Niall's translations to study and memorise_…why_, she was not sure.

It didn't help that she was useless at Tevinter, much less any of the Magister-accepted devices. Again, Torrin had volunteered her for the job, instead of someone who was actually talented in languages like…oh, say…Phineas Florian Algernon Horatio Humperdinck the twenty-third, or whatever his name was. Alyce had tried talking to him once and ended up wishing she could turn spontaneously into an abomination so she could be cut down by the templars, just to escape his conversation. It wasn't as if he was unpleasant or boring. He was actually quite an interesting person with a lot to say. A _lot _to say…Really, a LOT; which, Alyce realised, was probably the reason why Torrin had chosen her over Finn. She may be exasperating, impatient, irreverent, rude and did not play well with others, but at least she knew the value of silence.

Most of the time.

"_Alyce_." Torrin threw down the sheet of parchment and glared at her.

"Hm?"

"You appear to have developed a rather distressing spasm of the lower limb," Torrin commented. "Might I suggest a visit to the infirmary for a curative?"

"You think they have alcohol?" Alyce asked hopefully. _Maker, I could do with something alcoholic right now…Those blasted blood mages destroyed the east common room still…damn them!_

A slight relaxing of Torrin's posture indicated a heightened level of exasperation on his part. Alyce grimaced, easing herself back into her chair, but still unable to sit in anything but a lazy s-shape. "I'm guessing that they don't…" she sighed, hope dimming.

"For dressing wounds, Enchanter Petra _may _have some distilled spirits," Torrin admitted leisurely. "But I wouldn't recommend it." He looked down his nose at his sheet of parchment. "Tastes like ditch water."

Alyce chuckled. "Torrin, Torrin, Torrin…you're such a wild child."

"I am neither wild, nor am I a child, my dear," he reminded her sternly, "and more than twice your age so it is still _Senior Enchanter_ to you_._ I did not spend years of my life terrifying apprentices simply to be referred to as 'Torrin'."

"Senior Enchanter, Senior Enchanter, Senior Enchanter…" Alyce sang obediently, then paused "wait…I can't think of anything else…"

"I welcome the respite."

"Hng…" Dropping her head into the palm of her hand, Alyce tried for the last time to apply her recalcitrant attention to Niall's translation. If she squinted _this way, _and tilted her head to the _right…_

At the other end of the table, Torrin carefully and reverently picked up another sheet of parchment from the side, making a note of his own on an old fashioned scroll. When he had finished, he looked towards Alyce's end of the work area and cringed inwardly. Niall's meticulously numbered and indexed pages were strewn carelessly about Alyce's half of the large desk. As a young apprentice, Amell had been neat and disciplined. Habits applied to her appearance and her surroundings had clearly been ingrained in her from a very young age, perhaps the product of living with an elderly relative, but the last few weeks had seen the mage slip in her standards. Her normally neatly braided hair hung ragged and lank around her thin, oval face, her robes ill-mended and dishevelled; but it was her treatment of such important documents – documents she once would have handled with the greatest care - that gave him concern.

Also the fact that she continued to…_jiggle_ her leg under the table made him want to contain her in a permanent paralysis field – but that would be counterproductive.

He frowned at her. "If you need to respond to the call of nature," Torrin said patiently, "you needn't ask for my permission. You are slightly older than age three."

Eyebrows knitting, unravelling and then re-knitting across her forehead, Alyce asked, completely bewildered, "why would nature call…? Ohh…" her cheeks burned brighter. "No. Oh no, no, no. I don't…Um. No."

Alyce forced her leg to remain still by crossing her feet at the ankles under her chair. Perhaps it was staring at these unreadable pieces of parchment for too long that was making her brain shut down, cell by cell? Perhaps it was because she had been sitting in this room for so long and had lost all circulation in her backside that was distracting her? She remembered her tutoring sessions with Niall in the lead up to some major examinations. His ability to sit completely still for hours on end had made her pace restlessly, compensating for his lack of movement. Hundreds of years of magical knowledge lay at their backs and no mage had ever come up with a remedy for numb-bum.

_What is this damned word…?_

"Wait…"

Torrin looked up again. "Wait what?" he enquired.

"Why does this word keep moving about the page?" she asked. "It is!" she exclaimed, watching the word _wriggle _over another.

Torrin watched her eyes dart about, tracking movement of something fast on the parchment. She raised a hand above it then brought it down with a loud clap. "Gotcha!"

Curiosity getting the better of him, Torrin stood and came to stand beside Alyce's chair, just as she tilted her hand to the side. Underneath was a blank area. "Where'd it go?" she asked, mystified. "It was here a moment ago!"

Torrin chuckled, patting Alyce on the shoulder. "You spent years learning at Niall's side," Torrin reminded her. "Did you learn nothing of the man's character?"

Alyce looked at the empty palm of her hand, then back down at the page. "Slippery sucker…" she muttered under her breath. "He liked puzzles as I recall…" Alyce squinted at the page. "And custard…"

"Horrid stuff," Torrin shuddered. "Food for the toothless and infirm…"

"Always needs stewed apple." Alyce pursed her lips, picturing Niall in her mind; the stooped shoulders; his permanently ink-stained hands; his soft voice and that goofy grin when he thought he was making a joke that no one understood. He was like that. He loved confusing people. He enjoyed confusing her…She sat back, still staring at the page.

"I miss him Torrin," she said quietly. "He was so good at what he did…" _Always kind…always tolerant…Damn him for getting his life force sucked dry by a Sloth Demon!_

The Senior Enchanter gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We all miss him, my dear. Unfortunately the Maker giveth and the Maker taketh away, as the Chantry simply _love _to remind us."

Alyce looked up at him. "You don't believe that."

"Of course I don't," Torrin said with a punctuating harrumph. "I have better things to do with my time than wait about twiddling my thumbs while some vaguely heaven-bound entity decides what horrible fate to bestow upon my pathetic existence. If I did that my dinner would go cold and I would never learn to make any blighted decisions for myself."

Alyce looked instinctively towards the door, knowing a templar stood outside able to hear their conversation. Templars were usually a tad touchy about the Maker and his Prophetess.

Torrin saw the look and gave her shoulder another tap. "The Chantry and its followers have their place in this world, my dear. Feeding the poor; giving succour to the sick and infirm, contributing to bad architecture. Orphans and bastards would be far worse off without such a service, but the Chantry is not populated by omnipotent gods and prophets…and they offer only one view out of very many in Thedas alone, much less the entire world."

Torrin returned to his side of the room, collecting up his notes and rolling them up to place in a metal cylinder. "Have you worked it out yet?" he asked her.

Alyce looked down at the page. Niall had poured his life energy into this work (and the Sloth demon had stolen the rest). It was an echo of the person he was, however faint. Running a single index finger down the page, she whispered, "Custard…" under her breath. The jumping words stopped wiggling about and playing with her mind. They were now just ordinary words – still in Tevinter script – but at least she could concentrate on them in one place on the page.

So the word was..._Vessel _no_, container…_she scowled. No, it was _place_…_home…? _What was the correct translation? Torrin had had to refresh her memory about the story of Flemeth…Witch of the Wilds…_Asha'bellanar, _the elves called her. Some called her The Undying One, others The One of Many Years. Those old children's' stories told of a woman who made a pact with a demon in order to prolong her life so that she could wreak vengeance on the man that had betrayed her and murdered her love. She was also rumoured to have borne many daughters…but why only daughters? And how could she even cause only a daughter to be born? Did she get rid of any male children she had? It was too horrible to think about. _The Witch of the Wilds eats children…_Aunt Mildred used to scoff at folk who used this as a threat on recalcitrant kiddies who wouldn't eat their peas.

So…Alyce squinted at the word. _The word is…_"Holy Andraste's rib roast! Is _that _what this is?" she exclaimed, snatching her hands from the parchment as though it would burn her if she touched it.

Torrin looked up. "Do share," he suggested.

"This…" Alyce pointed accusingly to the page. "This is a spell for…" She lowered her voice cautiously. "This is a spell for _inhabiting _a live _host_!"

Torrin smiled a slow smile that caused dimples to appear in one cheek and rather attractive wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"Well," he said. "It took you the better part of a day, but still you managed to work it out. I am glad now that I didn't wager a larger amount with Irving…"

-oo-

The pieces were falling together. Not quite like a jigsaw, but like one of those wooden toys with shapes carved out of the top for children to push blocks through. Niall's translations were becoming easier to read. It wasn't surprising, given the amount of time she was spending on them, but the possession spell had been so disturbing, she had had to force herself to return to the work room she shared with Torrin the next day. The more she learned, the less she wanted to be around the spell book. Worse were the nightmares she had been having since the word _host _had jumped out at her from Niall's translated pages. After the first nightmare she had been thankful the thick fur rug by her bed had been removed. Falling face first onto a cold, hard stone floor during a violent nightmare had been a profound relief.

Torrin did not seem to notice her bloodied nose the next morning, or else he was far too polite to comment on either her nose or the dark circles around her eyes. He did however, chastise her for falling asleep on Niall's translations and smudging the carefully inked notes with drool. This led to a lecture about her lack of care for the importance of Niall's work, delivered in Torrin's calm, unhurried pace that made her feel worse than if he had shouted at her.

Torrin shouting…Alyce really didn't want to see whether he could make him shout. Ever.

This morning she felt worse. A mage having nightmares was always considered a bad thing, even though there was a difference between Fade dreams and ordinary dreams. The dreams she had been having were the type that small children had about tentacles reaching up from under the bed, or creepy eyes staring at her from inside a clothes cupboard. It wouldn't matter to the templars though. If they suspected she was having nightmares of _any _kind, she would be placed on nightwatch…

It was no surprise that she found herself in Owain's stockroom en route from her room to the third floor study. She stood on the threshold, inhaling deeply. The place smelled like cinnabar and star anise, the stones scrubbed shiny grey. If Alyce had not been here during Uldred's scouring of the Tower, she would have thought that the blood mages had bypassed the stock room altogether. No traces of battle or death had been left behind in Owain's tiny oasis of cleanliness and calm.

"Welcome to the stock room of magical items," Owain's voice drifted through her worried thoughts. "My name is Owain. How may I assist you?"

Despite her anxious mood, Alyce couldn't help but grin at the Tranquil. The same greeting, every day, to everyone, without change or pause. She stepped up to Owain, looking about her at the neatly ordered rows of shelves and specimen cabinets.

"I would like a pony," she told him. Behind Owain stood the locked stone cage where the more unusual or dangerous magical items were kept under hefty, magic-proof locks. On the other side of the large circular room was a curtained-off area beside racks of clothing.

"The stock room has no ponies currently in stock," Owain replied dispassionately. "Do you have any other requests that I may assist you with?"

Alyce returned her attention to Owain reluctantly. "I guess…" Alyce spotted Keili seated on a stool in amongst the clothing racks, looking like a dozing bird in a forest of cloth and wood. Alyce thought she had never seen someone so contented looking before…perhaps there was something to this Tranquil business after all. The Tranquil lost their ability to dream, didn't they? _No dreams…_no nightmares of wizened old women attempting to possess one by trying to squeeze through their ear…

Alyce hugged herself. Last night the witch in her dreams had attempted to invade her left nostril…which was a prospect far more terrifying than it sounded…

"Do you wish for a new set of robes?" Owain asked, noting her gaze kept returning to Keili and the sets of mage robes.

Alyce dragged her attention back to Owain, chewing on her lower lip. "What does it feel like," she asked, "being Tranquil?"

"My mind is uncluttered," Owain replied in his soporific voice. "My thoughts are clear, with no emotion to cloud them."

Staring up at the cobweb-free arches, Alyce sighed, "It must be nice."

"It is not something I would recommend for you, Enchanter Amell."

Alyce's eyes dropped in surprise. She stared at Owain, a frown forming slowly on her face "Why?" she asked, curious.

"You are a good mage and a powerful one," Owain told her seriously. "It would be a pity were you to lose your magic."

An image of Aunt Mildred blurred in her mind's eye. If she had had no magic, she would still be in Highever with her Aunt, looking after the feisty old woman as she should be looked after, not left to whatever convenient, long-distance arrangement a third-party could muster. If she had been in Highever, she would never have met Neria, or Jowan, or Niall or Torrin and life would be less complicated. Maybe.

She sighed. "Thanks Niall," she told him gratefully.

"To defeat the Blight the First Enchanter will need all the mages he can at his side," Owain told her. "The Blight poses far more danger to the Circle of Magi than Blood Mages. Being overrun by darkspawn would be most unpleasant."

Alyce gave a short humourless laugh. "Unpleasant?" she repeated. "Yes, I suppose it would be." Although why the First Enchanter and Torrin had her studying an ancient abomination's spell book she could not figure out. The spells did not seem to have a logical connection to defeating the darkspawn – or perhaps it didn't? For all she knew it could simply be Irving's way of keeping her occupied until the Grey Wardens were ready to go to war.

Neria fighting a war…it seemed such a difficult concept to grasp and it was thoughts of her young mage friend in battledress that saw her through the final steps to the third floor study room. She'd been just about to open the door when she heard an almighty thump on the other side of the door, followed by Greagoir's distinctive roar. His words unfortunately were muffled by the wood. The tiniest of pauses followed and then the door handle was jerked out of her grasp. The Knight Commander himself appeared, startling to find her on the other side of the door. Alyce blinked at him, mentally taking note that the First Enchanter was in the room behind him.

"What are you doing here?" Greagoir growled – for something to say, she supposed.

Alyce shrugged. "Standing," she told him and then her traitorous voice added, "We must stop meeting this way, Knight Commander…people are going to start to talk."

A vein jumped angrily on his forehead. Growling indistinctly, the Knight Commander pushed past her, once more jangling out of sight.

"Ah Alyce," Torrin's wry voice sighed from inside the room. "Perfect timing, as always."

"I try, Senior Enchanter," Alyce grimaced, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. She had woken up feeling stupid, so she might as well work her way upwards…

"Actually," Irving's eyes glittered at her eerily. "I am glad for your timely arrival." The First Enchanter motioned her to take a seat – a gesture Alyce was learning had more to do with dominance than cordiality.

"The Senior Enchanter tells me you've been making great progress with Flemeth's grimoire," Irving said in a tone of voice far too conversational to trust. At her side, Alyce's hands clenched around the chair seat nervously. She tried not to look at Torrin.

"I have a request," Irving continued. "I would like you to travel to Denerim."

Alyce's mouth dropped open and remained open. "Huh?"

"As you know, I promised Warden Neria assistance with the Blight."

"Yuh…?"

"I would like you to meet with her in Denerim – quietly of course, seeing as our kindly Regent has seen fit to post a bounty on the Grey Wardens' heads."

"Geh?"

The First Enchanter tapped the pile of parchment that represented a lifetime of horrible witchy practices in inky monocolour. "Senior Enchanter Wynne accompanies the Grey Wardens still. I would like you to convey an important – and needless to say, highly confidential – message to her."

Alyce still didn't know what to say. She tossed up the idea of being made Tranquil again, then carefully and regretfully put it aside.

"Why?" she managed eventually.

"Oh," it was Torrin that answered. "I think you could do with some fresh air, don't you think?"

-oo-


	16. Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

A/N: A big thank you for those who have taken the time to review. I know this story is slower than a tight-rope walker with foot cramp. Without the urgency to raise an army, bring certain high-profile deserters to justice and finding a big enough can of Mortein to use on an extra large, fire-breathing, flying pest, I'm just enjoying ambling about Ferelden too much. Anyway, thanks for your patience and for sticking with the story. On to the next chapter…

-oo-

**Chapter 16 – Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow**

They cut her hair.

Alyce knew in the pit of her being that she shouldn't be so bothered about it. It was dead stuff anyway and had been looking like rotting worms residing on her head for such a long time that having it taken away from her should have been a relief. Yet, she hadn't realised until now – now that it was mostly gone – how much of a shield it had been. Hiding behind a curtain of untidy, unruly, greasy hair had been like being able to hide behind her own personal, portable shrubbery, except with slightly less wildlife.

It bothered her that people could now see she actually had a face and ears and a skinny neck just ripe for wringing. When the light-bleached ends had been trimmed away, leaving behind her natural ash-brown colour, the abandoned strands left on her scalp stuck out at random angles, making her head look like the coat of a demented lap dog who'd been the recent victim of a lightning spell gone wrong.

_Urgh…_she made a face at her reflection. _Stop obsessing about it…! It's just hair, for the Maker's sake…! _It had been Torrin's idea. With civil war being waged across the Bannorn and bandits and rogues allowed free reign, she was to travel disguised as a simple farmer's son. It was a plan supposed to make her passage innocuous, unnoticeable, though privately Alyce preferred to believe that nothing said 'get out of my way or I'll set your underclothing on fire' better than an angry mage…dressed in angry mage robes in black and blood red, with perhaps a depiction of something angry and dead emblazoned on the back…with spikes…angry ones…somewhere…just not in her hair.

Wetting her hand from the jug at her dressing table, Alyce tried once more to smooth the spikes, with limited results.

"Ah…there you are…"

Senior Enchanter Torrin halted at the doorway, eyebrows raised. "Well…" he said. When nothing else followed, Alyce joined him in his wordy conversation.

"Well?" she asked.

"Hm…" Torrin murmured, his gaze lingering on the top of her head then travelling slowly around the rest of her.

"Look," Alyce sighed. "Just tell me I'm hideous and be done with it."

"I could," Torrin said slowly. "But in this instance my dear, it would be a lie. I must say however that you do make a very attractive looking young man." He entered the room, sketching a slow circle around her, all the while tapping on his chin in thought. "At first glance no one would think you a vulnerable female. Your height is an advantage there," Torrin added with a nod. "And your appearance in general is unremarkable enough not to attract attention on the road, being rather…grey."

As he spoke Alyce felt her confidence shrivelling, but the trip was primarily to contact Wynne, deliver the package and information and then return to the Tower, _not _a fun holiday of sightseeing, culture-sampling and setting of underclothes on fire...The less conspicuous she was in Denerim, the better. Still…

"As long as you take care to avoid unnecessary contact with tavern wenches and lusty peasant girls," Torrin added depressingly. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Golly, _thanks_ Senior Enchanter," Alyce said with sarcastic enthusiasm.

The sound of rattling metal heralded the arrival of the First Enchanter and a stranger clad in grey leaf-mail. Alyce had to be content with shooting Torrin an unhappy glare, turning her attention to the new arrivals. The soldier seemed out of place in the room…someone from Redcliffe, perhaps? The man's hair was dark brown and tied into a neat ponytail at his muscled neck. His eyes were dark too; almost black and if not for the brushes of grey at his temples, Alyce would have called him young…On a second look, he did appear slightly familiar…where had she seen him before? It was only when the gentleman took up post at the doorway, did the clues fall into place, Torrin confirming her thoughts with his introduction.

"You might recall Ser Ryan," Torrin indicated the man with a small wave of his hand.

Of course she should have remembered. Ser Ryan had been one of the templars that had accompanied the mages to Ostagar and back again. But his appearance was…altered. It wasn't just the fact that he was out of the familiar templar's uniform. Out of the plate armour he was thinner, slightly less imposing…gaunt. There was also a look to his eyes which she remembered seeing elsewhere, on another templar…one that had held a sword to her throat…

What had happened to the Ser Ryan that had helped Wynne from Kester's boat? The man with the smiling eyes and ready laugh? The grim, unsmiling individual staring dispassionately at the wall behind them did not tally with the one in her memory. _Lovely…_Alyce cringed inwardly, trying to steer her attention back to Torrin's conversation. _Another damaged templar…_

"…accompanying you to Denerim."

Alyce's eyes flew to her mentor in alarm. Had he just said what she thought she had just said? A…_broken _templar was to be her travelling companion?

"I'm not going with another mage?" she asked, eyes darting fearfully towards Ser Ryan.

"I don't see why you should," Torrin said, pulling absent-mindedly at the end of his beard. "It is customary after all, for mages to be accompanied by a templar…Now, I think the two of you had better hurry down stairs. I understand Kester was keen to leave while the tide was in and all the planets and stars were auspiciously aligned…"

Alyce had picked up her travel pack, clutching them to her chest nervously. "But…" she protested…_so soon?_ "Any last minute instructions?" she asked, looking first from Torrin, then to the First Enchanter.

Torrin paused, considering possible advice. "Try not to use any magic," he told her.

"But I'm a mage!"

"Dressed like that?" Torrin shot her peasant outfit a pointed look. "You're just a farmer's son, out…doing whatever it is farmer's sons do when not…farmer's son-ing…"

"Try not to draw unnecessary attention to yourself," the First Enchanter droned over a waggling finger. "The quieter your arrival in Denerim, the better."

Alyce hugged her pack closer. She had already asked Irving _how _she was supposed to look for Senior Enchanter Wynne. The map of Denerim rolled up in her smallclothes at the bottom of her pack had a black cross on a place called 'The Wonders of Thedas'. The words from the First Enchanter 'oh you'll just know when you're there', gave her less confidence.

"Oh!" Irving struck the air with his finger again. "You will probably need funds…I knew there was something I would forget. Excuse me…" With that the First Enchanter turned and shuffled out of the room, muttering under his breath about meeting them all in the entry hall.

A moment after he had gone, Torrin touched her shoulder, "Don't keep Kester's skiff or his tide waiting!" he warned cheerfully, then he too turned and left, leaving her alone in the room with Ser Ryan. Chewing on her bottom lip, Alyce began edging past the dresser towards the door, her eyes not daring to leave the templar once. He cocked his head to the side, glaring at her.

"So…" Alyce told him, her hip bumping the door frame. "I'll meet you on the ground floor…" Once a foot was outside, the rest followed rapidly as she fled with a frightened squeak.

"_Enchanter_!"

Ser Ryan's shout behind her spurred her feet to move faster as she took the second floor stairs three at a time, knees jarring at each landing. High above her, the staircase doors boomed shut and Ser Ryan called out again. Alyce flew across the landing and through the stairwell's doors, entering the first floor with four successive, awkward hops.

"Enchanter Amell!"

His voice had sounded louder, angrier, causing her to quicken her pace. She cut through the Apprentice's Common Room with an apologetic squeal, vaulting over a desk, toppling chairs and scattering magelings. Emerging on the other side, her foot caught the edge of the hall rug. One arm cartwheeling, Alyce managed to right herself on the run, bursting through the last set of stairs that would take her to the ground floor.

"For the Maker's sake, Enchanter!" Ser Ryan's voice boomed – and how did he manage to catch up to her so fast? Her only thought now was to get to the ground floor foyer as quickly as possible, hoping that the templars on guard duty at the entry would be able to assist her. It was doubtful that Torrin and Irving would be there before her…

"Stop!"

Alyce looked for the briefest moment over her shoulder just as she burst through the barrier doors. Ser Ryan was barely a dozen metres behind her and closing fast. She turned…too late to see what was before her, colliding with the wall of metal and cloth with a meaty thunk. Her momentum, combined with surprise, caused the templar to stumble; Alyce saw him throw out his hands for balance, striking the templar next to him, the two of them going down, taking Alyce with them as well as the templar next in line…

_Sodding sod…! _Alyce watched in horror as she realised there were more templars in the entry than usual because they were in the middle of changing shift. Post Uldred, the Knight Commander demanded more ceremony than usual and the changing of the main entry guards was an elaborate, drawn out affair that involved marching and saluting and neat rows of shiny templars…now toppling like dominoes across the entry foyer from the barrier doors to the tall carved monoliths of the main entry.

Vaguely, Alyce heard Ser Ryan skid to a halt behind her.

"No running in the…hall…" he said, his voice petering out to a mere whisper as his gaze took in the scene of crumpled plate armour and tangled humanity.

At Ser Ryan's feet, Alyce pushed back a stray lock of hair from her eyes, the full extent of what she had just done beginning to creep up on her in cold fingers of dread and embarrassment. It took half a second more to realise she was _sitting _on a templar, rising to her feet gingerly, her cheeks turning from the colour of chalk to that of a spectacularly setting sun.

On the other side of the room, the Knight Commander stood wide-eyed in shock, not quite able to comprehend what had just befallen his men. His gaze swept along the mess of templars, eventually resting upon the young mage as the likely perpetrator of the unprovoked attack. Alyce baked visibly under the heat of his glare even while she became aware of the growing intensity of angry, muttering growls reverberating beneath dented helms.

The Knight Commander raised an arm. A single, angry finger curled towards Alyce.

"_You…_" His voice emerged hoarse; seething with far too many words needing to be said in too short a space of time.

The sound of footsteps preceded the arrival of the First Enchanter and Senior Enchanter Torrin; who paused upon the threshold, eyebrows fusing with his hairline as he too gazed in wonder at the scene. To newcomers, it was a confusing tableau; difficult to see where one templar began and another ended. Torrin tried very hard not to look at Alyce, but he could not help himself; nor could he stop his mouth from curving upwards appreciatively at the barely contained fury upon the Knight Commander's grizzled visage. He was, luckily, able to stop himself from laughing in time.

"I had grave reservations about allowing this mage to leave the Tower…" Greagoir managed a few more wrath-torn words. "But I have changed my mind." Advancing upon the mage in question, he growled, "The sooner this…this…_walking disaster _leaves my Tower, the _better!_"

-oo-

Ser Ryan eased another log into the fire, making sure it caught before returning to his seat across from the brooding mage. By mutual consent the incident with the templars had not been discussed, though Ser Ryan itched to ask her why she had chosen to run.

Curiosity aside, the night air was chill and damp and he fully intended to take advantage of the warmth of his tent soon. All he had to do was check the wards and spells laid out around the perimeter of their tiny camp before attempting to get some sleep. He'd been fully prepared to take watch, used to long stretches of vigilance at the Tower, but the mage had set up such strong magical defences, that he felt fairly confident they would be safe, sleeping out in the open with a fire marking their position to any bandit or thief in the area.

The darkspawn however, were another problem. Ryan knew well how easily the creatures could appear suddenly as though springing from the ground. While the horde may have appeared then disappeared from the Korcari Wilds, he knew that the darkspawn had moved northwards enough to have overtaken Lothering. Nor would it be unusual for them to encounter the monsters in large enough numbers to overwhelm one mage and one templar. Out of his customary plate armour, he felt far too vulnerable for his liking.

Ser Ryan stood, intending to start his check of the camp's defences. When he passed by the mage, she flinched, tightening her hold around her knees. He frowned at her, wondering what he had done to make her react this way, and then realised…Hunkering down beside her – close enough so that he didn't have to raise his voice, but far enough away to make a well-aimed fireball effective – Ser Ryan watched the young mage carefully a few moments before speaking.

"He asked for a leave of absence, you know," he told her. Her head turned barely a centimetre away from the fire, listening but trying not to make it seem obvious. "Grantham," he added as confirmation. "He'd been one of the templars under blood mage control, but never mentioned anything. As an older templar he didn't feel it…right that he succumb to a mage's control and so kept it a secret until the 'episode' in the Harrowing Chamber."

Now she looked at him in surprise, but just as quickly looked away.

"One of the Tranquil reported the incident…or did you think it would be hushed up?" Ser Ryan told her, raising his eyebrows.

"He's…not going to be in trouble, is he? Grantham, that is" Alyce asked quietly, remembering that the three of them had been working so well together until Grantham had turned…_odd._

Ser Ryan shook his head, surprised to find a mage to have compassion for a templar after such a situation, but unsurprised that the mage who did so was Enchanter Amell.

"No," he said. "He was allowed to return home for a short time. Gwaren, I think…On his return he will be reassessed by the Knight Commander. We'll see what happens then, I suppose, possibly he'll be re-assigned to another location."

"You templars must hate us all…" Alyce huddled more tightly into a ball. "I don't blame you."

"It was a mage that saved us, as I recall correctly," Ser Ryan sighed. "Two mages, if you want to include Senior Enchanter Wynne. I would be a fool to paint all mages with the same brush…" And it was mages – and not templars – that had promised aid against the Blight. The templars meanwhile, like wallflowers at an important dance would remain without a single turn at battle with the darkspawn…He debated telling her his thoughts. The young mage had given him a look that told him quite clearly she did not believe him.

"You were angry," she murmured before he had the chance. "Before we left."

Ser Ryan blinked in confusion. _Angry? Had he been…?_ "Oh…I was…" He sighed again, bouncing on the balls of his feet to try and encourage a little more circulation into his legs. "I had just undergone a…a disappointment," he admitted slowly. Would it matter if he told her this at least? Being able to trust him was essential if they were to travel together for the next few days…

"I had requested a leave of absence myself," he said with a small grimace. "I…wanted to go to Lothering. My request was denied." It had been no surprise, but no less disappointing at the time, but his fuming and his angry pleas had not swayed the Knight Commander.

She rewarded his confidence by pinning him with a concerned look. "But Lothering was…" she began, stopping abruptly. Chewing on her bottom lip, she returned her gaze to the fire. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry. This appears difficult for you."

"I need you to trust me, Enchanter Amell," Ser Ryan stated simply. "And I can't see that happening if you believe I harbour some resentment towards you as a mage. I don't." He lowered himself the rest of the way to the ground, stretching out legs that had gone completely numb.

"I had…family in Lothering…" he told her, staring into the heart of the fire.

"Family?" she repeated with a pitying wince. "Then I am truly sorry."

Ser Ryan's mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. There was little humour in it. "My older brother was stationed in the Chantry there," he went on. "His last message to me was that he hoped the templars would take as many refugees away from Lothering as soon as possible. That was not long after our return from Ostagar. I…have not heard anything from him since."

"I am…sorry," Alyce said, fidgeting nervously with her bootlaces. "Though it seems such a small, pointless thing to say…under the circumstances."

"In all honesty," Ser Ryan leant back, directing his gaze heavenward. "I can't imagine where Bryant would have gone. Is there anywhere safe in Ferelden now? You saw the horde in Ostagar; how many darkspawn were there. By the time the Grey Wardens have gathered their allies, so would the creatures." He gave his head a shake. "I want to think Ferelden is not lost, like Lothering...but it takes years; decades for the land to recover from the taint. Are we fighting to preserve a diseased country?"

"You…" Alyce ventured carefully, "don't think the Grey Wardens will be any good?"

"I know little of the Wardens and what powers they possess to save us," he stated with a shrug. "My opinion matters little." Ser Ryan pushed himself off the ground, rising to his feet in one swift, fluid move. "It is late and we must start early tomorrow. I suggest sleep, Enchanter Amell."

"What about you?" Alyce asked, for some reason her mouth twitching in what seemed like humour – had he said something funny? He was sure if he had, he would have noticed. Still, it was better than being afraid of him.

"I wanted to check the barriers first," he told her, brushing dirt from his legs. "After that I will join you…" Ryan froze, realising belatedly what he had just said. From the look on her face it seemed the trouble he had taken to confide in her had just been reversed by a single, careless comment. Nor did he have any idea where that particular wording had come from.

He began haltingly, "Of course I mean…"

"You have your own tent," she said with a small nod.

He found himself nodding confirmation, trying to tamp down sudden feelings of foolishness.

"And a very nice tent it is," she said, in a tone of voice that sounded suspiciously like mockery.

His eyes narrowed at her, trying to divine the meaning or the reason behind her sudden change in attitude. He remained baffled.

"I can't set up a spell to detect darkspawn," she sighed, serious again. "They can appear anywhere, but after you've gone to your tent, I'll lay down more repulsion shields."

"Right." Ser Ryan breathed a quiet breath of relief. "I'll have to remember that if I feel the urge for any late night trysts…" This time her eyebrows jerked upwards. "To the…privy…" he forced himself to enunciate slowly and carefully, not sure which was worse; the comment about wandering about looking for romantic encounters or mentioning anything at all about certain bodily functions...

Alyce uncoiled herself from the ground. To his surprise she reached over and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. "I knew that. And in case you're wondering," she said. "I'm _not _controlling your thoughts to embarrass you." With a sneaky grin she added, "I'm too tired for that. Maybe tomorrow…" She turned her back on him, throwing her hand up in the air and wiggling her fingers. "Good night!"

She disappeared beyond the flap of her tent. Ser Ryan released the lungful of air he hadn't realised he'd been holding until now. Picking his way across the ground towards the first of the traps, he shook his head at befuddling mages and their swinging moods. He reminded himself he had his duty. He also reminded himself that he was far too old to be thrown off balance by a pair of mocking grey eyes in a pretty face...He would have to watch himself from now on.

-oo-


	17. Hit and Run

-oo-

**Chapter 17 – Hit and Run**

_Try not to use magic…_

"Ser Mage, Ser Mage…I was wondering whether you'd take a look at my lad…He started out with a bit of a sniffle but now he's got this rash and he won't eat anything…"

_Don't draw attention to yourself…_

"Oh, you did a right good job there, Ser Mage. You've a way with the beasts, no doubt about that…"

Alyce straightened in time; the bullock gave its hoof a flick and would have knocked her head over heels if she'd been crouching still. As it was she'd had to jump backwards to avoid having her shins shattered. The owner of the beast stepped in, giving the bullock a slap to the flank that set it bellowing and moving forward. She turned her attention to the diminutive woman still tugging on her sleeve. _Not use magic huh…?_

"My lad…" the woman repeated shyly. "Will you take a look at him now?"

Alyce gently disentangled the woman's fingers from her clothing and nodded. "Lead the way…"

Across the top of the woman's coppery head, Alyce caught Ser Ryan's look of resignation and sent him a good-natured shrug. The templar had been cajoled into helping the farmer's family fix their cart and with the limited tools at their disposal, set to replace the broken wheel spokes. The two of them weren't anywhere near Denerim when they had come across this group of refugees fleeing westwards along the North Road. The caravan had been attacked by a small pack of Blight Wolves, spooking the bullock which in turn led to their wagon overturning. The farmers; used to these sorts of attacks on their own lands, had been able to drive the wolves off, but not before the bullock was injured and a wheel damaged in the process.

It had been difficult to simply walk past without an offer of help…

"You really headin' for Denerim?" the woman asked, bright blue eyes inquisitive in a round face generously peppered with freckles.

Alyce nodded, following the woman to a makeshift lean-to under a leafless tree. There was a motionless bundle under it. Leaning down to look more closely at the small figure huddled under the thin blanket, Alyce knew she did not need to be a healer to see the child was gravely ill. His thick red hair was plastered to his skull and the smell of stale sweat and bile hung about him. Alyce was no expert in childhood illnesses, but she had learned enough at Wynne and Petra's side to recognise Red Fever. Alyce asked a few, casual questions, becoming increasingly dismayed at the length of time the child had been ill and lastly, the admission from the woman that he'd been fitting.

"You can help him, can't you, Ser Mage?" the woman asked, hopeful. Behind them a cheer when up from the men. The wheel had been fixed and the wagon re-hitched to the beasts.

Beside Alyce, the woman's mouth crooked into a lopsided smile. "Oh, I'm glad that's over and done with. We can get moving again, thank the Maker."

Alyce said nothing, sorting through her small store of herbs for the boy. She soon found the ones she needed, wrapping them in a bit of parchment and handing them to the woman with instructions to steep the leaves in hot water like tea.

"Shall I give him some of it now?" the woman asked, her eyes straying to the men diligently reloading the cart with their belongings. "Or later, when we've stopped for camp?"

"I would recommend now," Alyce told her, extending her fingers towards the boy's forehead. Where her fingers touched the child's skin white-blue glowed briefly then faded far too quickly. "Look," Alyce began, "I really don't think…" to be interrupted by the woman's eager voice.

"I had better go and help the lads," she said, distracted by the activity elsewhere. "The sooner we can get everything loaded up, the better, eh?"

The woman rose swiftly before Alyce could stop her. In her wake, Alyce expelled an exasperated mouthful of air. Boot steps approached. Alyce turned to see Ser Ryan. He knelt alongside her, frowning at the boy. "How is he?" he asked.

"Red Fever," Alyce told him in a quiet voice.

"Maker's breath…"

"Any chance you can convince them to stop for a while?" she asked him. Ser Ryan's head-shake was definite.

"They're determined to make up for lost time," he told her.

The two of them turned as the woman came running back. "Oh, are you two _sure _you won't come with us?" she asked. "I'm sure we could make room for two more."

"Thank you, good lady," Ser Ryan stood, towering over the woman by more than a foot. "But our business takes us elsewhere."

Alyce grabbed the woman's shoulder when she bent down to pick her sick child from the ground. "You really need to give your child the brew _now_."

At Alyce's urgent tone, the woman's smile upended. She flicked the barest of glances towards the gathered men by the cart. "I know he's bad, Ser Mage…" the woman directed a guilty gaze towards the ground. "My mother had the Red Fever…died from it in fact, so I know the signs…" Returning frightened eyes to the two travellers, she added, "but the darkspawn…we can't afford to linger any more…I've seen what they do, 'an…Excuse me." Holding the child closer, the woman turned abruptly and hurried to join the men. Alyce watched as one of the men – the father presumably – took the child and placed him in amongst the crates on the top of the cart. The beasts were turned, the cart returned to the road and the party continued on their way with few backward glances.

"Well at least your disguise as a man was not uncovered…" Ser Ryan began, turning to find he was addressing empty air. Alyce had already started off in the opposite direction and he found he had to jog to catch up to her. Her fists were clenched and her jaw squared.

"Bloody, blasted…! They care more about their bloody cows than they do about a dying child!" Her words emerged in an angry staccato that punctured the air more effectively than her fists.

"You heard what the woman said," Ser Ryan reasoned in his calm voice. "They're terrified of the darkspawn. Surely you can't blame them for that."

She halted, turning eyes on him that were spitting fire, though not literally…luckily. "How can you be so calm?" she demanded.

"Practice," Ser Ryan told her.

"Argh!" She shook her fists in the air some more. "Infuriating!"

"Mages are taught calming techniques," Ser Ryan reminded her in the same, level voice. "I suggest you employ one of them now."

Alyce whirled, glowing red for one brief moment. Ser Ryan felt the stubble on his jaw singe as a fireball flew over his shoulder into a rocky outcrop several feet behind him. It disintegrated into a spray of glowing molten rock. He raised an eyebrow at the mage as she dusted off her hands. "Feel better?" he enquired politely.

"Yeah. Maybe," Alyce tossed off an unhappy shrug. "Though if I could have blown up those…_people,_ I'm sure my therapy would have been complete."

"I would also have been forced to neutralise you," he informed her, irritatingly calm.

"I still would have felt better…" Alyce argued. The two of them continued to walk, her shoulders slumping in acute unhappiness. After a while, Ser Ryan broached the subject of the ill child.

"How long do you think the boy has?"

She sighed, knuckling her eyes in frustration. "Being knocked about in the back of a laden cart, exposed to the elements, he'd be lucky to have another couple of days." She gave her head a sad shake. "The fever's far too advanced. If we'd come upon them sooner…" She sighed again. "Magic is really good for nothing, you know that? I can blow up a lump of rock, freeze a duck midair. I can turn skin into rock, but I can't take away a common sickness from one, suffering little boy. What good is that?"

"You made the lad comfortable," Ser Ryan told her. "Which is more than his own family could do for him."

Alyce made a rude sound. She wondered how soon until they encountered the next lot of refugees and their unsolveable problems. She had been dreading arriving at Denerim, but now she could not get there soon enough.

"How far until we reach Denerim?" she asked.

"Another three…four days perhaps."

"What if we walk very fast?" Alyce asked.

"Then we tire faster," Ser Ryan told her, his expression reminding her too much of Senior Torrin.

_I wonder what they're all doing right now…? _Alyce mused, lengthening her strides, but keeping her pace even. _Torrin's probably thrashing the First Enchanter at Plonk about now…_Or having afternoon tea and one of Cook's bizarre biscotti things. There was still half a plum pudding wrapped carefully in cheesecloth at the bottom of her pack that Cook had given her, but she'd been saving it as a celebration for their arrival at Denerim. Maybe she'd take it out tonight instead when they stopped for camp. Maker knew she could use a bit of sugar in her otherwise bitter day…

-oo-

Denerim.

Was.

Big.

It was huge actually, as cities go. On the other hand, it wasn't as if Alyce had seen very many cities in her lifetime to compare. She'd only seen one…and she was looking at it. She had heard other mages – those who'd been lucky enough to be allowed out of the Tower – describe places like Amaranthine and _Orzammar…_She'd even heard how beautiful Val Royeux was though admittedly the description had come from a book written by an Orlesian, which probably wasn't to be trusted, in her opinion.

Denerim was not like the cities she'd heard or read about and she stood rooted in the mud for fully ten minutes, staring through the gates of the immense city, attempting to take everything in. To say it was sprawling would have been an understatement. It had stretched and reclined and had a few choice morsels fed to it by several lithe concubines and then moved to a slightly better location so it could have a better view while sprawling and reclining some more…The spires and turrets of the Royal Palace could be clearly seen presiding over the entire city like an indulgent grandmother watching over her brood of busy grandchildren, the towers of Fort Drakon its sterner counterpart. Now and again a large sail could be seen floating between tall slanted roofs; an illogical sight until she reminded herself that the River Drakon bisected the city before emptying into the Amaranthine Ocean to the east. The entire city bustled, hussled and tussled with activity, despite the darkspawn threat to the south of the capital.

Clearly, the people of Denerim had as yet to look out of their windows and notice the Blight-creep on the horizon.

Alyce couldn't work out what had struck her first about Denerim; the smell or the noise of the place. So many people squeezed into one area, piled in on top of each other in a cacophonous, orderly…_mess_ that she found both overwhelming and fascinating at the same time.

It was terrifying.

And wonderful…

She had to go in there.

No, really. She _had_ to go in there…

"Are you alright, Amell?"

Alyce allowed her jaw to fall open. "Bloody bells, it's big," she said eventually. "Is it normally this big?" She turned to Ser Ryan who was looking at her as though his head was about to explode. "I mean…I'm having a bit of trouble…I don't think my brain is coping very well…"

Ser Ryan chuckled. Giving her a little push to encourage her to move out of the way, he told her, "Just wait until you've seen the market district. You can buy anything and everything there, _if_ you have the right amount of coin."

She took a step forward, the first of her boots emerging from the slimy mud with a wet, squelching pop.

"A word of warning though," Ser Ryan's voice became serious. "The city is renowned for pickpockets and cutpurses. Keep your pack and your money bag safe."

"I've ensorcelled both with a misdirection hex," she told him cheerfully. "Anyone trying to pickpocket my stuff is going to find themselves very confused…" _Not to mention inflicted with a rather nasty, persistent rash…_

"What happened to the 'no magic' rule?" he asked, though he already knew the answer to that question. Not using magic had been impossible. Since their first encounter with the good people of Ferelden along the North Road, they'd fixed one broken axle, cured four cases of pox, rid several heads of lice, ten bouts of influenza, repaired two tents, replaced an elderly person's walking stick and had delivered three babies. One of them had been a calf…After that much work, Ser Ryan had convinced himself that travel was really not what he remembered it to be as a templar going about his normal duties. Marching along a muddy road in freezing weather in full plate armour with a sodden robe soaking up the ice and cold had been a pleasant stroll through a field of daisies in comparison to the last three days travelling with one mage disguised – very poorly – as a farmer.

"It's just a _little_ spell…" Alyce said, craning her neck to follow the progress of a barge along the Drakon. "Hardly any magic really…"

"Let's just find this 'Wonders of Thedas' place, shall we?" he suggested, hoping the place wasn't too far from the Denerim Chantry. They were more likely to receive lodgings at the Chantry given who they were than anywhere else. He had noticed the number of people milling about the gates – more refugees most likely – and expected lodgings within the city to be either sparse or far more than their present funds could cover. Neither of them knew how long it would take to find Senior Enchanter Wynne or whether she would be found at all within the city. For all they knew, the Grey Wardens might be steering clear of the place.

"Might I also suggest a visit to the Chantry?" Ser Ryan added.

Alyce paused her examination of a group of young noblewomen to stare at her companion.

"Why? Are you feeling religious?" she asked, realising the noblewomen were staring at her companion too.

"For information." He rolled his eyes at her, moving her along again. "Find out what is happening in the city. We might be able to obtain word of the Wardens' movements there."

"And get back into templar uniform?" she wiggled her eyebrows at him, noticing colourful movement behind his right shoulder. _Are those women _following_ us?_

"A templar's armour is presented to him when he takes his vows," he told her with a mock-offended sniff. "_My_ set is at the Tower of Magi."

"What?" Alyce bounced on her toes once. _Yes, by Andraste's smoking girdle…they are!_ "Templars don't borrow each other's armour, just to see how it looks on them?"

He frowned at her. "It's a _uniform_." There were girlish titters behind them. Ser Ryan turned, his frown deepening. "Never mind," he grated, taking Alyce's arm and pulling her along. "Let's just keep going. Staying in the one spot for too long is likely to make us look suspicious…"

"Oh, I wouldn't call it suspicious," Alyce turned over her shoulder and winked at the women in what she hoped was a manly way, given her disguise.

"Don't encourage them!" Ser Ryan hissed to more womanly giggles.

"They like you…!" Alyce sang. The smile on her face fading, she clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh! I forgot…templar. Vows. Chastity. No hanky panky please, we're _Chantrrrry_…"

"Have you been drinking?" he asked her, wishing her eyes wouldn't twinkle like that. "You're being ridiculous."

"Talking about drinking…" Alyce ambled along, glancing once more over her shoulder. The noblewomen had given up and had redirected their flirtatious attention to a group of soldiers wearing tabards with some sort of rearing animal on them…a…dragon…? _Too many legs…Wyvern…_Now where had she seen that emblem before? Alyce did not return to her previous train of thought, instead quickening her pace. She glanced worriedly at Ser Ryan, one thing occurring to her that she should have thought of before: in Denerim, they were _recruiting…She_ might be able to pass for a weakling, once her skills with a sword were found to be non-existent and be passed over as a potential soldier for the Regent's army, but Ser Ryan _looked _like he was good with anything pointy.

She doubted Loghain's men would believe – or care – that Ser Ryan had already been promised to the Prophet Andraste.

Noticing her hurried pace and the grim look that had overtaken her previously cheerful countenance, Ser Ryan asked her what was wrong. "The women have gone," he informed her. "I don't think we're in any danger of having our virtues compromised."

"Loghain's men," Alyce hissed at him. "What if they're looking for new blood?" she added. "We can't afford to have you conscripted into the Regent's army."

"I have a letter under the Knight Commander's seal," he began. "Explaining…"

"And what if the Knight Commander's authority doesn't stretch this far?" she interrupted with a grimace. "This is Loghain's city now." She looked over her shoulder, even though she had just told herself not to. The soldiers had indeed noticed _them _and discussion had begun. When one of them – one with a slightly pointier helmet – broke away from the main group and started towards them, Alyce yelped.

"Look," she said urgently, "you know the way to the Chantry. We'll go there first for information as you've suggested and then see how we can manage getting to the mage's bazaar without attracting attention."

"Good idea, although…" Ser Ryan pulled her behind a laden merchant's cart and the two of them plunged into the heart of the crowd moving up the main street. "Has it ever occurred to you," he told her quietly, "that the General is looking for mages too?"

"That's just silly," Alyce said, checking behind them. She could see the point of the soldier's helmet just slightly above the crowdline weaving towards them like a pike's fin through lake water and gritted her teeth. "What would _he _want with mages?"

Ser Ryan's eyebrow curved at her. _Has he been taking lessons from Torrin? _she wondered.

"Right, stupid question, forget I asked."

The two of them continued to wade through the crowd of strolling couples, noisy families, mounted soldiers, merchants' carts, messengers and ordinary people going about their daily business. The crowd thinned but they stayed in the shadows of a row of narrow houses, skipping over the wide gutters and avoiding the dead things and refuse that had been left lying about on the ground.

"See that bell tower over there?" Ser Ryan pointed to a structure that appeared too far from their current position. Alyce nodded. "That's our target. The Denerim Chantry."

_At least he knows where we're supposed to go…_Alyce thought. Her boot caught on the upended edges of a broken cobble and she stumbled, stepping accidentally into the open gutter. "Oh, for the Maker's sake…" she muttered, lifting her boot out of what used to be rainwater and now was a death pit for vermin, animal excrement and the unwanted detritus of civilisation. "That's really disgusting…I thought the garderobes back at the Tow…"

"Well, well, well…What have we here?" a gravelly voice asked them rather unoriginally. Alyce looked up from her inspection of her filthy boot. Unknown to the both of them, the soldiers that had been tracking them had taken a detour, hemming them in from the other side of the street.

"Deserters, I think." Another soldier – the one in the pointed helmet – arrived from behind them. He pointed at Ser Ryan with narrowed eyes. "Weren't you at Ostagar?" he asked. "Captain says I was to round up anyone that'd done a runner after the battle."

Alyce glared. "Does that include the great general himself?" she snapped, eyes flashing. _I really don't have the time or the patience for this…_"Being Chief _Runner_, after all…"

The comment earned her a backhanded slap across the face; the mail in his gauntlets leaving a printed red mark across one cheek. Alyce's head snapped up, teeth barred, the slap and resulting pain only serving to increase her anger. The words of the largest, hottest fireball rose to her lips…

"Magic exists to serve man…"

Alyce blinked. She turned to her companion, who stood, hands clasped and head bowed. "And never to rule over them…" he continued. Alyce stared at Ser Ryan in disbelief. _We're about to be arrested and he breaks into prayer?_ At this point Ser Ryan raised his head slightly. His dark eyes slid for the briefest moment to an oddly dressed figure behind Soldier Pointy Head.

_Tevinter Mage_…She gave a small nod, indicating she understood.

"Foul and corrupt are they," Ser Ryan recited. "Who have taken His gift and turned it against his chil…_NOW!_"

Alyce ducked just in time to miss Ser Ryan's well-aimed Mana Drain, the Tevinter flying backwards, thoroughly holy smited. The soldiers around them suddenly found themselves the victim of a flying swarm of insects, bumping and falling over each other as they were hit by rapid-fire hexes. Neither Alyce nor Ser Ryan waited to see whether their actions were working, both taking off as fast as their legs would take them, Alyce turning briefly to refresh her stinging swarm and reanimate a few dead things from the gutters. She ducked back into the crowd, knocking people askew and then sliding under a horse-drawn cart. She didn't stop running until the shouts behind her ceased and her lungs burned. All that walking the past four and a half days had extended her stamina, but her legs still felt like jelly.

She slipped into the narrow space between two buildings, hiding in the gloom until she could catch her breath. A bubble of laughter escaped her. "That was a lot of fun," she said. "But let's not do that again, Ser…oh dear…"

She'd been so busy running, she'd completely lost track of the templar. Sticking her head briefly outside, she scanned the crowd. She could see no sign of Ser Ryan.

"Oh dear…" she retreated back into the shadows. "This can't be good…"

-oo-


	18. Icing on the Cake

A/N: A really big thank you to you reviewers, readers and just passing throughs. Your thoughts, comments and suggestions are truly appreciated, cheers!

World of Dragon Age belongs to Bioware (batteries, golems and iced buns sold separately).

And…yes Sten…the cake is a lie…

-oo-

**Chapter 18 – Icing on the Cake**

Ser Ryan resisted the urge to turn around and walk down the street again. He'd already done it twice and people were starting to notice. If the two of them had looked suspicious enough to attract attention from the General's half-baked soldiers, a canny merchant was going to get a bit grumpy at someone walking past their wares repeatedly without buying anything.

He battled with professional pride and worry; the former winning by a scant few points. He'd lost the mage. How could he _lose_ a mage? How could he lose sight of a six foot tall, blonde haired mage dressed badly as a peasant in the middle of Denerim? One minute the two of them were running in the same direction away from the soldiers – which in itself was inherently suspicious – the next he was running by himself. Lifting his hand to wipe anxious perspiration from his forehead, he attempted to banish thoughts of the kind of trouble Alyce Amell could get into on her own…What if the soldiers had found her again? What would she do to them and what kind of unwanted attention would _that _attract?

A few buildings behind him the Chantry bell tolled the hour. He would have to concede defeat for now as there was little else he could do at this hour or the next. Wandering about a city as big as Denerim trying to find Amell was as good as attempting to locate a dust mote in a bowl of warm custard. He would go to the Chantry and hope that she would turn up there. If not, well…Amell was one of the mages whose phylactery had been sent to Denerim he was sure, though he disliked having to 'hunt' her. There was the whole lyrium…thing to start off with and then the _paperwork_…Having to explain to the Revered Mother that he'd misplaced a mage was not something he looked forward to either.

With any luck, he'd be able to locate her before sunset…With even more luck, she would be found hale, hearty and none the worse for wear. Denerim was not the sort of place he would recommend for a mage of Alyce's age or inexperience. It was troubling. Wherever she was, she was probably scared, tired, hungry and feeling well out of her depth…

-oo-

"Oh and I'll have the green one as well, thanks."

The pastry seller wrapped the purchases in a thin parchment bag, adding in an Eccles cake because she thought the young lass needed a bit of meat on her, refusing the extra coppers to cover the cost.

"With compliments Miss; and I'll not take your money," the merchant told her firmly, pushing the proffered coins away. "Think of it as payment for solving my…er…_problem._"

Alyce noted the 'Miss' and grinned nervously at the woman. It was probably no use trying to convince the pastry seller that she was a man, but she was glad that she'd been able to be of service.

"Just slip the herbs into your husband's afternoon tea and he won't know the difference," Alyce reminded her.

"I'm hoping _I _will, though," the woman chuckled good-naturedly.

"My pleasure."

"Mine too, I'm hopin'!" The woman beamed at her. "Now, you haven't forgotten yet which way to go have you?"

"Up this road, turn left, left, right and then straight on," Alyce repeated obediently.

The pastry seller clucked her tongue in dismay. "Honestly, Miss you're greener than my apple icing. It's left, right, _right_ and then straight on. Don't get lost now…my, you are a worry!"

"I'll try…" Alyce promised her sheepishly.

After having waved the pastry seller off, Alyce started down the road, nibbling the corners of her iced bun. She'd bought the green one for Ser Ryan; a peace offering for losing him…and how in Thedas could she _lose _a fully grown Templar in the middle of Denerim? How was she ever going to live this down at the Tower? Maker, how was she going to explain this to Irving…and _Greagoir_? One minute the two of them were running away from the soldiers together, the next he'd gone missing. She hoped he hadn't fallen into the river, or been overtaken by Loghain's soldiers. Extricating him from the authorities was going to be messy, but she could probably seek assistance from the Chantry. Once she explained what had happened (embroidering a few details, obviously), perhaps they'd understand…and then wait for the inevitable storm from the Revered Mother about how she had been an irresponsible and careless mage…

"Uhh…stupid, stupid…!"

"_Alyce?"_

Alyce stopped thumping the ground with her feet and turned around slowly. Standing by an open gate that appeared to have been constructed out of several pairs of frilly iron knickers was a diminutive elf. The elf was dressed rather provocatively in a set of cut down (or in this instance, cut _up_) robes of cream and black with the feathers of an entire swan arranged artfully about the slender shoulders. There was no mistaking however, the silken locks of blue-white around the perfectly oval face, or the wide amethyst eyes staring in surprise at her.

"Oh hullo Neria." Alyce waved the bag of pastries at the elf in greeting. "I was looking for you…well, not looking for you _now_ exactly; but looking for you in _general_. How've you been? Nice robes by the way. Interesting use of deceased avian wildlife."

Neria shook her head. "I can't believe…what am I saying?" She threw her hands in the air in surrender. "When it comes to you, anything is possible. Is there any use in asking you why you're here, how you did it…and what happened to your _face_?"

"Oh…" Alyce touched her cheek. The pastry seller had been quite helpful in pointing out the interesting pattern the soldier's mail glove had left on her skin. It had stopped stinging, so she had completely forgotten about it. "Just mixing with the locals," she told her friend cheerfully. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I was just about to head over to the Chantry." She added with no small embarrassment, "Need to see the Revered Mother about a little lost Templar."

"Lost Templar?" Neria repeated, mystified.

Alyce raised her hand at a level slightly higher than her own head. "Mm. About this high. Dark hair, square jaw, dark…ish eyes. Answers to the name of Ser Ryan."

"Divine Ryan?" Neria murmured, then gave her head a shake. "Wait, you've _lost _a Templar?"

"Well, when I say 'lost'…more like temporarily misplaced really…hang on, what did you call him?"

"Never mind, not important," Neria frowned. She folded her arms across her chest. "You said you were looking for me."

"Senior Enchanter Wynne more accurately," Alyce told her, turning serious. "If she's still in your company, that is. I have an important message for her from the First Enchanter."

"I see…" Neria replied slowly, pinning her friend with a probing look which Alyce deflected by appearing completely bland; something the taller girl was particularly good at. "Why are you dressed like that by the way?" Neria asked, giving Alyce's messy peasant's garb a disapproving look.

"My ankles were chilly," Alyce said, looking down at her mud-stained trousers. "Um…are we going to stand in the middle of the street talking, or are we going to go somewhere? I'm kind of anxious to get my Templar back, to be quite honest."

"Come with me…" Neria suggested. "The Arl's estate isn't far and we can send a message to the Chantry for you once we're there – and yes Wynne's still with us…" She rolled her eyes, indicating attempts had been made to remove the elderly mage from their party, to no avail. With a short jerk of her pretty head, Neria indicated she follow her. Alyce did so, allowing her elf friend to lead her further along the wide road to another set of gates. These were far more austere than the ones where she'd met Neria. They were also guarded by a pair of diligent soldiers who snapped to attention on their approach.

The gates were opened and then closed firmly behind them. Alyce looked at the imposing structure situated at the end of the gravelled road. There was little in the way of decoration; no nymphlike statues, ponds, urns or privet, only a single square of neatly mown lawn to one side of the building's entrance. On the other side, the gravel road continued to loop around the other side of the building.

"Arl of Redcliffe's estate," Neria explained. "He's very kindly let us stay here, while we sort out some business in Denerim." Alyce nodded, feeling as though she were being swallowed whole by wood and stone as they stepped through the double doors of the estate. The straightforward, unornamented style of the building's exterior extended to the inside. Furnishings were sparse; decoration limited to paintings of previous Redcliffe Arls and plain rugs to dampen sound within the neat stone walls. There was an air of age about the place, but nothing else, as though the house had never been in the company of its owners for a period of time long enough to soak up their character.

The two mages proceeded through the long halls, past an open library to a set of rooms clustered in a u-shape. Neria paused at a scrubbed wooden door. She knocked twice and entered without waiting for a response that spoke volumes about the regard Neria had for the Senior Enchanter.

"Wynne. Visitor," Neria announced, then touched Alyce's shoulder. "I'll take care of the message to the Chantry, but can I see you later?" she asked quietly. "We need to talk."

Alyce nodded and waited until Neria had left. She had expected her friend to ask to stay, but she supposed anything for Wynne was probably no concern of hers. She wondered what had happened between the two women. Normally, Neria was polite to a fault, tolerant of everyone, but she could sense the enmity between both mages right up until the door closed behind Neria. When Alyce turned her attention to the single occupant of the room, it was to find Wynne approaching her.

"I can guess why you're here," Wynne said in her brisk school ma'am's voice. "But if you don't mind can we go outside? I feel like some fresh air and sunlight."

Nodding her assent, Alyce followed the elder mage out of the room.

-oo-

The rear of the estate was a little different from the front. Here there was a garden of trimmed hedges, flower beds and topiaries. In the far corner, a solemn, vine-wreathed cherub emptied water into a discreet lily pond. The adjacent corner had a half wall fencing off a vegetable garden. Alyce followed Wynne to a stone rotunda, stepping around a scarred Mabari sleeping in the sun. There were stone seats in the shade…Alyce thought she could hear someone playing music somewhere. It was…peaceful, but she hadn't come here for peace and relaxation. When Wynne indicated she seat herself nearby however, Alyce complied, making sure her back was facing the sun. The inside of the estate had been chilly.

"This is nice," Alyce said, stretching her legs out.

"And how is the First Enchanter?" Wynne enquired politely. "And Greagoir?"

Knocking her toes together, Alyce chose to ignore the fact that the older woman had enquired about a title first and a person second. Instead she slipped her pack from her shoulder and unbuckled the holding straps. It took her only a few seconds to locate the sealed wooden box. She handed it to the Senior Enchanter.

"The First Enchanter told me you would know what to do with this," Alyce explained. Wynne accepted the box with a puzzled frown. She broke the seal and opened it, charcoal eyebrows rising in both surprise and understanding.

"I see," Wynne sighed. "Interesting." She looked up. "Was there something else?"

Alyce pursed her lips. She looked around, cautiously peeking into the rose bush behind them. Only the Mabari appeared to be within hearing distance but apart from the odd paw twitch, did not show any signs of acknowledging either of their presences.

_How to start? Where to start? _Alyce wondered. "Did you know that…Enchanter Niall had been translating a…a book?" she asked. "A very old book?"

"Flemeth's grimoire," Wynne gave a short nod.

Alyce stared at Wynne in surprise. "You do know about it? Then you know what was in it? Do _you_ believe it belonged to…" She couldn't say the name and lowered her voice. "You know who?"

Despite having given every indication activity had not been on her mind, Wynne still stood, pacing the length of the rotunda. Spreading her hands wide, she said, "I'd heard Niall had completed the translation. But I had not been aware of its subject until…later."

"Irving believes the original was stolen from the Tower," Alyce told the older mage.

Wynne made an un-Senior Enchanter like noise. "And what do _you _think?"

"Am I allowed to?" Alyce blurted before she could stop herself. Instead of scolding, Wynne chuckled.

"And that is why _you_ were sent to find me and no one else."

Alyce leant back against a pillar. "Here I was thinking I was sent to find you because Irving was afraid I'd blow up the Tower or accidentally turn all the Templars into teapots." Wynne merely raised her eyebrows at Alyce. The younger mage sighed. "What do _I _think? I think the book was _recovered_, not _stolen._ The templar who relieved the original owner of the book in the first place must have been either incredibly stupid, very brave or unusually lucky. Perhaps all three." Alyce's eyes narrowed at the Senior Enchanter. "You know what the book means, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Wynne re-seated herself. "I could hardly travel with one of Flemeth's daughters without learning a few things of my own. In fact, having read the recovered grimoire and discovered the delights within, the daughter then decided that the purpose for which she existed could not continue…and thus convinced a sympathetic mage to assist her in destroying the threat to her existence..." The Senior Enchanter sent Alyce a sharp look. "Niall was very talented in ancient languages and artifacts was he not?"

"He was also a good friend, Wynne," Alyce said quietly. She knew however, what Wynne was trying to get at. The spell book had not been the only thing the Templar had confiscated from the marsh witch.

Alyce ran a hand through her hair, dropping her chin into her palm. "Has Neria landed herself in a big mess?" she asked.

"Mess?" Wynne enquired. "Besides being involved in the escape of a blood mage, conscripted into the Grey Wardens, ending up as one of the last _two _Wardens in the entire country at the time of a full-blown Blight?"

Wynne propelled herself from the stone seat with unexpected energy, pacing the stone like a caged animal. "Oh…_that girl!_" The words were expelled out of the older mage's mouth as though she couldn't bear to have them contained inside her in the first place. "Piling one thing onto the other…layer upon layer of…_trouble. _If Neria Surana believes disposing of one elderly woman will end it all then she is not the mage I had hoped she would be."

Wynne ceased her agitated pacing. Arms folded tightly across her chest, she arched her head back, staring unseeing at the underside of the domed roof. She sighed. "Irving trusts her however…and that must be good enough for me. Though I do so under protest."

"You don't…like Neria?" _Or trust her…?_ Alyce thought, leaving that question unsaid.

"Oh…" Wynne unbound her limbs enough to wave a hand dismissively in the air. "We have our differences. I have not always agreed with some of her decisions which has no doubt contributed to a certain…_distance_ between us, but I respect her abilities and I cannot but help admire her determination to see this through."

Alyce was curious to know the details of the _layers of trouble _Wynne had mentioned but she suspected the Senior Enchanter would likely redirect her to the source for answers.

Wynne turned to the younger mage. "And what are your thoughts on this whole…situation?" she asked, blue eyes keen and penetrating.

Feeling like a poorly prepared student at examination time, Alyce tried to consider her words carefully. The last three days away from the Tower had given her time to think about Niall's translations and the horrendous possession spells…the book had included how to…_prepare _the living vessel. It had to be human. It had to be female. It had to be capable of magic…and it had to be alive, but there was something that had niggled; something that didn't quite add up; something Alyce was sure was _there _but she just couldn't see it yet.

_I don't know…_Alyce wanted to say. It was the easy way out. Too easy.

"Why did Irving need _you_ to know this?" she asked instead.

"Me of all people?" Wynne took a deep breath, considering. "Why not wait until after the Blight? After – Maker willing – I survive long enough to return to the Tower? Is that what you mean, hm?"

There were a number of answers that came to mind, whirling about the inside of Alyce's head, insistent yet confusing; each answer returning a question of its own. Wynne travelled in the company of Flemeth's 'target'…but why _this _party in particular? Neria and Alistair had survived Ostagar, but how, when all the other, more experienced Grey Wardens had perished? Flemeth's daughter travelling with the Wardens was coincidental, providential…but was it? What if Flemeth had determined there would be some kind of benefit for her daughter to travel with Grey Wardens and if that was the case then what benefit would that be?

Alyce blew out a long breath of air, her lips wobbling in a most unladylike manner. "I don't know," she said taking the easy way out this time. "Do you?"

"Why do you think I'm continuing to brave the bad Ferelden weather, the inconvenience of tent-sharing, lack of basic amenities and civilised conversation, if I did not wish to find out?" Wynne demanded.

Alyce snorted, "Because you're a restless, busybody old biddy who can't help herself?"

"And that, young lady" Wynne pointed out crossly, "is the sort of comment likely to lead me to give you a grand old spanking."

Alyce grinned at the elderly mage, completely unrepentant. "It still won't make it any less true." She was sure that if Wynne had been of less dignified bearing, the elder woman would have stuck her tongue out at her. "So we don't have enough information…yet." Alyce sighed.

She pointed to the small wooden box. "Does that have anything to do with this?"

"Oh that?" Wynne waved another dismissive hand. "Not really," she said, adding, "Archdemon's blood. For a Grey Warden Joining."

Alyce sat bolt upright. "Joining?" she gasped.

"Yes. Joining," Wynne confirmed. "Clearly, Irving thinks he needs more Grey Wardens..."

-oo-


	19. What a Mage Wants

-oo-

**Chapter 19 – What a Mage Wants**

"Do you have it on yet?"

Alyce plucked at the material of the blouse in response to Neria's enquiry. After the loose shirt and vest she'd been wearing the last few days, the…and what was it that Neria had given her to wear exactly? A tunic; some kind of feminine version of a doublet? It was far too short to be a dress, and far too clingy to be a blouse. Anyway, it was _sort of _a relief. She'd been sleeping and travelling all day in the same clothes for the last four days and they had begun to develop a personality of its own; the sort of personality that would not have been suitable for polite company, drank far too much ale at the open bar, belched at inopportune moments during the host's speeches, leered down the front of the hostess' dress and then ended up having to be ejected from the party by a squad of armed guardsmen.

Something was not quite right.

"Come _on _Alyce, let's see what you look like."

Alyce cringed at her reflection, the novelty of being able to see how her legs attached to her torso in a full-length mirror (as opposed to the plate-sized ones at the Tower), had long since passed when she realised the whole picture was really not that appealing. Seeing herself in bite-sized quantities was far more bearable.

"If you're not going to come out…" A small hand threatened, gripping one side of the screen, "I'm coming i…_ohh…_" With a single pull, Neria had yanked the screen aside. She and her redheaded friend stood gawping at Alyce, causing the overexposed parts of the taller mage to – naturally – react in colourful embarrassment.

"The lower half appears to be missing," Alyce pointed out helpfully, giving the hem a downward tug. This set off a fit of girlish giggling from the other two women that had Alyce feeling as though she had really missed a very good joke somewhere. She sighed, waiting for their laughter to subside. Clearly they were not going to share the punch line with her.

"Oh come on Alyce," Neria's eyes sparkled. "Is that the best you can do?"

"It's very…nice," Alyce said slowly, clearly struggling – because it _was _nice, lovely in fact – but what was she expected to say? The garment was truly beautiful. It was slightly reminiscent of the Tower robes in their general shape and unerring sense of impracticality. Lined panels of pewter brocade combined cleverly with leaves of etched silverite to form a contoured bodice that rounded the tops of her shoulders, tucked in far too close to her waist and fell far too high above her knees. It had clearly been made for a person with magical talent; on closer inspection of the brocade panels, it was found that the pattern was made up of runic symbols entwined and repeated across the fabric: _strength, power, focus, endurance._ At the slightest movement, the silverite caught the candle flame in the windowless room, glittering in multiple layers of jewelled light. It also looked incredibly expensive. Alyce had no idea how much the garment had cost Neria; she was too afraid to ask, but she was also too afraid to tell her friend she felt incredibly, unutterably, stupidly…_ridiculous_.

"And it comes with matching shoes." Neria's redheaded friend held up a pair of high-heeled long boots. They too were beautifully crafted in stamped leather of deepest grey with inserts of the very expensive silverite_._ Alyce took the boots soundlessly, slipping her stockinged feet into them without a word.

"I like it," Neria pronounced with a satisfied nod. "It suits you." There was something in the tone of the elf's voice that made Alyce even more uncomfortable.

"Neria…"

"I'm glad I got the chance to give this to you before…" Neria gave Alyce's arm an affectionate hug, leaning her head into her shoulder. "I had no idea when I'd be able to return to the Tower…" The elf's amethyst eyes flicked sadly upwards, watching their combined reflection in the mirror, "…if at all…"

"Don't talk like that Neria," Alyce scolded softly. "You'll definitely be back. That is, if you want to."

Neria sighed. "I wish sometimes that that there wasn't just the two of us…_Wardens…_I sometimes wonder how different it would be had Duncan and the other Grey Wardens lived. I want…" Her hold on Alyce's arm tightened slightly. "I want…"

_More Grey Wardens…_? Alyce filled mentally, trying not to look guilty. She certainly _felt_ guilty; her thoughts travelling back to the last conversation she and Wynne had had in the garden…

"_Irving needs more Grey Wardens?" Alyce had exclaimed at the mention of Archdemon blood and the Joining ceremony. "Can we do that?"_

_Wynne shook her head sorrowfully. "Unfortunately…no," she said. The Senior Enchanter picked up the wooden box. With the gentlest of fire spells, she resealed it by melting the wax around the edge, blowing on it to cool the warmed beeswax. It had been enchanted with lyrium so that re-melting it caused the wax to return to its original shape, bearing the emblem of the Circle of Magi and thereby, its protection._

"_While I was privy to the process involved in preparing the Joining potion," Wynne added gravely, "I do not know the correct ratio of ingredients required to render them safe. The incorrect amount of Darkspawn and Archdemon blood and I might as well create a poison."_

"_Even more than it already is?" Alyce snapped, angry. _

"_Yes," Wynne sighed. "Even more than it already is. Unfortunately neither has Duncan appeared to have passed this knowledge on to Alistair or Neria."_

"_Then it was pointless bringing it to you?" Alyce demanded, getting angrier. The more she spoke to Wynne, the more she wondered whether this entire trip had been a complete waste of time, from the revelations contained in Flemeth's spell book to the vial of Archdemon's blood._

"_We shall see…" Wynne had said mysteriously, pursing her lips. "We shall see…"_

"Neria. I have something…" Alyce began haltingly when the door opened, effectively removing the opportunity to speak.

"Ah-ha!" a deep, accented voice addressed them mockingly. "I could no longer wait for you to introduce me to your…" The newcomer's eyes raked along the entire length of Alyce's body, causing her to think of _ice…_and freezing certain body parts off. "…Rather _statuesque _friend," he continued smoothly. "Seeing as you've seen fit to keep me in suspense, I felt I should take steps to introduce myself."

He was an elf. He was also blonde and…Alyce really could not think of anything else to say about him, but she did wrack her memory for her store of spells for one likely to remove the smirk permanently from his face. He made an elaborate bow that involved sketching circles and curlicues and arcane symbols in the air with muscles that should not have been abused by being made to be stretched and twisted that way.

"I am Zevran Arainai," he purred, "lately of Antiva and currently faithful companion to your fellow Tower of Magi friend." The smirk intensified as it passed once more over the indecorously low neckline of Alyce's…garment. Eyeing the many discreet buckles, clasps and laces, he added. "How…complicated. Should you wish assistance in de-robing, I would be quite happy to offer my not inconsiderably nimble services."

Neria snickered. The redhead looked scandalised. Alyce ignored him. She turned to her mage friend. "Thank you Neria. For the purposes of travel however, I think I had better get back into my own clothes."

"Can't," Neria informed her. "Had the servants burn them."

"You…wh-_what_?" Alyce spluttered, dumbfounded.

"Speaking of travel," the smirking elf added, "I come with a message; from a rather intriguingly handsome fellow who claims to be an acquaintance of yours. He awaits your pleasure in the Arl's library."

Neria looked towards her Tower friend. Alyce stood rock-still, the only part of her moving was her mouth which was opening and closing on soundless sentences.

"'Divine Ryan'?" Neria sang, eyes twinkling cheekily.

Alyce appeared to snap out of her daze, staring at Neria. She did not say anything for a minute more then: "You had them _burned_?"

Neria rolled her eyes. "You said you lost your templar. I told you I'd send a message to the Chantry, just in case he turned up there. Clearly, Ser Ryan received my message and decided to come here to meet you. I don't blame him," she told Alyce. "Knowing your shocking sense of direction, if you'd tried to make your way to the Chantry from here, you'd end up in West River or something."

"But you had them _burned_?" Alyce repeated. "And I do _not_ have a 'shocking sense of direction'!" she argued hotly. "I simply…enjoy taking a lot of _scenic_ detours!"

"Oh, just go and see him already."

Taking charge of the situation, Neria grabbed Alyce firmly by the arm and yanked her out of the door. It did occur to Alyce that she was not fit to be seen by anyone, least of all what was technically, an official of the Tower of Magi, but with Neria's fingers digging into the flesh of her exposed arm and the redhead and blonde elf following far too closely behind, she felt herded like a hapless sheep destined for future pie-hood. In the hallway, coming towards them from the opposite direction was a tall man in heavy plate. He paused, eyes widening at the party approaching.

Alyce paused too – in her construction of a wide-area paralysis spell – to return the stare. It was Neria's Warden Alistair…browner, larger and even more chiselled than the last time she had seen him. Clearly, fresh air, travel and the daily mass-destruction of Darkspawn agreed with him. He was looking well. _Very_ well…if a bit…depressed…Desperate for allies, Alyce threw him such a look of pure helplessness he was moved to utter, "Guh!" in her defence as Neria and the others propelled her mercilessly towards the Arl's library.

The party reached the door. The redhead scurried ahead and flung it open. Ignoring Alyce's unhappy whimpering, Neria gave her an almighty shove that propelled her through the open door. No one had seen the armoured individual standing at the Arl's desk except Alyce. By the time she realised she was about to collide with him she threw her hands out – too late – she had already been accelerating and then her ankle turned, the world slipping sideways…The top of her head collided with his back plate, her grasping hands his arms. As she went down she had a brief vision of toppling Templars; the panicked _oh no, not this again…_running through her brain.

Unlike the Templars however, the man in the armour had much better reflexes. He spun, catching her mid-fall and then righting her in one, smooth movement that took less time for him to blink.

Alyce stared into heavy-lidded eyes of summer sky blue, resting in a face that she never thought she'd see again. Nor did she ever wish to.

_General Loghain Mac Tir…_

Anger welled within her chest. A red haze obscured her vision as hexes warred in her head with a Tempest spell to rival any Tempest spell she had ever cast. She'd just settled on Thedas' largest fireball, when a wave of dizziness hit her. She reeled in anger and confusion, stumbling backwards. Her back came to rest against a hard surface, two gloved hands grasping her wrists firmly and warningly, pinning them to her sides.

The General had clearly finished his audience with the Arl. He turned upon his heel and left the room, leaving nothing behind but an air of resentment and the scent of armour polish.

Alyce did not wait for the door to close before tearing her hands from their restraints and whirling around to confront the person who had stopped her from casting her spell.

Ser Ryan took a step backwards, holding up his hands in a symbol of peace, "Amell, this is neither the time, nor the…"

"Why didn't you let me kill the bastard?" she yelled at him. He immediately clapped a hand over her mouth – Alyce flung an arm upwards, knocking his hand away with such force, the bones of her forearm made a cracking noise against the metal of his gauntlet. "I should have killed that bastard!"

"Alyce, please…"

"He left us to die at Ostagar!" Alyce reminded him with such heat it felt as though her ears would pop. "He abandoned the Wardens and the King! He deserves to have his intestines infested with a stinging swarm…his smarmy face _eaten _off with a…with a…spell that hasn't been invented yet – _but by Andraste's burning brassiere_ – I'll invent it!" she bellowed, piercing the air with a single, vengeful finger.

Alyce had shoved her face so close to Ser Ryan's, she could count every hair in his eyebrows and see the spider web-thin veins at the corners of his eyes. His eyelashes were unusually long and curled for a man, while his eyes, she noted, were a single, deep chocolate brown all the way through to the edges of his irises where they were encircled by a band of thin onyx. She blinked. She had never noticed until now that his nose was not completely straight, but had a slight kink in the bridge. One of them had had garlic at lunch…

He continued to stare at her in his calm way, a wrinkle slowly appearing between his eyebrows. His eyes slid slowly downwards, narrowing slightly as though measuring the distance between them and disapproving of a certain lack of it. It was one of those situations where – perched on the edge of a very long drop Alyce had found, too late, that she was teetering too far over the edge and there was nothing for it but to let herself fall and hope it didn't hurt too much when she reached the bottom – she could not find a way to widen the distance between them without admitting that she had been too close to make it necessary to do so in the first place.

_Awkward._

The wrinkle multipled.

"What are you _wearing_, Enchanter Amell?" Ser Ryan spoke finally, breaking the uncomfortable tension between them and giving Alyce an opportunity to sneakily sway backwards. Unfortunately this accorded him a slightly better view of her. His frown deepened.

"And…where," he enquired, "is the rest of it?"

-oo-

"You should have let me kill him," Alyce said, staring upwards. There was a knot in the log that had been digging uncomfortably into the back of her neck and she suspected something had crawled down the back of her clothes, but she felt too weary to care. A log was a log, unless it was a pillow as it was being used now, lying on her bedroll under the open sky and staring up at the band of stars above.

"And you would have been hunted, arrested and executed for murder," Ser Ryan's voice rumbled disapprovingly on the other side of the fire. "The General is still considered a hero by many and we were _guests _of the Arl of Redcliffe. Had you been allowed to harm the General in any way the Arl would have been implicated in your actions. Hardly the best way to repay the good Arl for his hospitality."

Alyce stuck her tongue out at the stars. "How do you handle being right all the time?" she asked Ser Ryan sourly.

His reply was prompt and precise. "Practice, training, dedication and the proper application of my time and energy into the study of righteousness," he replied smoothly…_Was he making fun of her? _And how could he make something that was so clearly ridiculous sound as though it wasn't at all?

"You're insufferable." She told him, then grinned suddenly in the firelight. "'Divine Ryan'…"

The last comment provoked a pained male groan from beyond the flames.

"How did you get a name like that anyway?" she asked, the small voice at the back of her mind sprouting legs so it could kick her for being dense.

Ser Ryan sighed in resignation before replying. "It was the only word the apprentices could find that rhymed with 'Ryan'," he admitted. She didn't need to look at his face to see the cringe. It was etched into his voice.

"Ryan…" she murmured to herself. "Buyin'," she added more loudly. "Lyin'…"

"I do not lie," he told her with an offended sniff. "Or at least, I try not to…"

"Cryin'…" Alyce continued. "Ha, ha. You'll do a lot of _that _if you travel long enough with me." _What else was there?_

"None of those words are complete," he argued. "Your attempt at vernacularising them lessens the impact of the simile."

"Ouch," Alyce winced, as though physically struck. "You're going to need an extra strong tonic to digest that dictionary you just ate…" An offended pause followed her statement. She sighed. "_Fine…_Ah! Fine Ryan! Dine Ryan…?"

"Now you're just grasping at straws," he accused her.

"Mine Ryan!" she announced in a loud voice, then immediately wished she hadn't. She was glad however that it was dark enough for him not to see her cheeks turn an unholy shade of chagrin-red. If he had, hopefully the colour of the fire being reflected upon her skin would have given her a believable explanation. As it was…"Of course, when I say 'mine', I mean 'dig a hole, stick a dwarf in it and ta-da! Stuff comes…out'. That kind of mine, not the…you know the _other_ meaning…" _And let's just steer away from conversation about _possession.

Another pause followed. _Maker, you're a bloody idiot…_she told herself.

"Well," he said – Alyce held her breath – "I knew that." _What the heck does _that_ tone of voice mean? _"Of course you meant…did you say '_dwarf'_?"

"You usually find them down ho…you know it's getting late and I think I'm rather tired, so, um. Good night." It would certainly explain the sudden affliction of stupid-head…

"You aren't going to use your tent tonight?" he enquired a tad too politely. _Oh, now I've offended him for real…Wonderful…_

"No." Alyce rolled over, the knot in the log pressing into her cheek. It would be penance. The cold would also be welcome…just _because…_"No. I'm fine Ser Ryan – uh, I mean I'm good. Perfectly comfortable. There's nothing like a cold, hard ground for, the uh…back. And. Stuff." _And stop talking now, you idiot!_

"Well, if you're sure," he said, sounding dubious at this claim. "You know best how to make yourself comfortable." _And uncomfortable too, _Alyce added with an inner sigh. _Divine Ryan…_she found she had to admit, it was true…a little bit…but she did wonder whether it had anything to do with an affinity for religion, rather than say…his good looks or his voice or the fact that he made a Templar uniform look less like a metal suit and more like…_Oh, I don't like where my brain is going with that. You can just get right back into your pen, like a good little head…go on, in you go._

"Alyce…"

She bolted upright. So deep in thought had she been, she did not hear him rise and walk over to her side of the fire or hear him kneel on the ground beside her bedroll. He was still wearing his mail and he certainly would have made enough noise.

"What?" she said in a voice louder than the question warranted.

"Tomorrow we travel the North Road again," he said quietly. With his back towards the fire and his face partially concealed in shadow, she could not read his expression properly. It made her nervous. "I was wondering…"

"Wandering?" she asked.

"Wondering…" he corrected her gently. "As it will take us by Highever again, I was wondering whether you would mind if we took a slight detour."

All awkwardness disappeared, to be replaced by a healthier curiosity. Healthier for her nerves, in any case. She had not even thought of Highever when they had travelled from the Tower of Magi to Denerim. Perhaps it was because they felt they had to hurry to Denerim and their minds had been elsewhere. Still, the North Road wasn't exactly a five minute trip from Highever. The detour would take them out of their way, (not to mention _into _the Knight Commander's Little Red Book of Naughty People) but…The thought of _Highever_…Aunt Mildred…

Ser Ryan was supposed to be the one who ensured that the two of them maintained a strict course and returned to the Tower on time with no side-trips. This unexpected request felt like rebellion on the Templar's part. Alyce liked Ser Ryan the better for it. Rebellious Ryan; she definitely liked that, trying to work out a solution in her head.

"Why Highever?" she asked out of interest.

"My family," he stated simply. "I would like to see them if possible. Word might have reached them by now about my brother. I should like to see how they are; pay my respects to my parents."

"You brother? The one at Lothering?" Alyce asked. _His family came from Highever too?_

"Of course," he added hastily, "If you feel uncomfortable travelling to Highever when we promised to return directly to the Circle. I will understand. I will accompany you and continue to ensure your safety as I was originally instructed, then seek permission to visit my family on another occasion." Reluctant Ryan, she wasn't too sure about.

Alyce opened an image of the map of north Ferelden in her mind, mentally calculating the distances. She had no idea where Ser Ryan's family lived, but even if the two of them took the coastal route, it should add only an extra day, perhaps two, to their travel time. Surely Irving or Greagoir wouldn't consider that a significant delay? She smiled to herself, thinking they _might_ get away with it. If they could, it would definitely be worth the trip. _I'm surprised I didn't think of this before. _

"I thought you said you never lie?" she poked his shoulder.

"Amell…" he began with a sigh.

"You don't have to pretend it's not a big deal," she told him. "It's important to you. We'll be in the area." She added with a shrug, "We should definitely look at dropping by," _Aunt Mildred…_"We can't possibly go past without at least popping in to say hello to...Mr and Mrs Ser Ryan…" He gave a gentle laugh. It sounded relieved.

"To Highever then," he said, white flashing as he smiled.

"Highever," Alyce repeated.

_Highever_…The word settled in the comfy part of her chest, pulling the covers over its feet and seeking out the warmth of the bed pan. She had delivered her message to the Senior Enchanter as promised. Witchy possession, demonic entities, Grey Wardens and the Blight could wait one more day, right…?

Ser Ryan returned to his side of the fire, Alyce lay back down, settling the log-knot into a slightly less uncomfortable spot. She felt asleep almost immediately upon closing her eyes.

The nightmares this time around were the worst yet.

-oo-


	20. Greenfell Surprise

A/N: A bit of a warning; chapter contains a bit of (implied, stereotypical) nastiness and more mage clumsiness. And trees.

Again, a very large thank you to all of you lovely, wonderful people who have reviewed, alerted and favourited. It gladdens the heart and warms the cockles to know that I can entertain you in a tiny way.

-oo-

**Chapter 20 – Greenfell Surprise**

_Highever._

"_High_ever…"

Ser Ryan glanced over his shoulder at Amell when she spoke again. He wasn't quite sure which was worse: the mage walking in front of him or lagging behind.

"High_ever_…"

Walking ahead of him accorded him a view that was distracting to say the least. She certainly hadn't _swayed _like that when she had worn male garb. The discovery that Alyce Amell had _legs_ should not have been a ground breaking revelation. They were rather nice legs to be sure…they just weren't…Chantry-_approved _ones…So he had forged ahead, taking the lead, only to find her falling further and further behind. One would think someone with legs that long could cover quite a bit of ground quickly, but not so with Amell. Of course the fact that she stopped frequently to wander off the road or simply to stand deep in thought in the middle of it did not help. He was tiring of having to backtrack and constantly check over his shoulder to ensure she was still there.

Perhaps the trip to Highever had been a bad idea after all.

"Highever…" she sighed. Ser Ryan frowned – and why did she keep repeating 'Highever' as though she was trying to work out what the word meant?

"High…"

"Why do you keep saying that?" he asked, finally.

She looked up, the expression on her face seeming as though she was surprised to find him still there. Ser Ryan continued to watch her, his hand straying out of habit towards his sword in its scabbard. She stood looking awkwardly at him, but did not appear to have anything else to say. She didn't look possessed or show signs she might be under demonic thrall, only tired.

After a long moment of silence between the both of them she bounced nervously on the balls of her feet. "Saying what?"

"You keep repeating 'Highever'," he told her.

"Ohhh…Do I?" She made an odd, fluttering motion with her hand. "Pay me no mind. Just talking to myself." She turned away swiftly but not before he saw the grimace. Without thinking his hand shot out and grabbed her arm, stopping her from continuing. He didn't want her walking ahead of him any more than he wanted her to evade the question.

"A conversation with yourself?" he asked. "Or with a demon?"

"A demon," she said promptly. "A very large one. With purple spots and big horns and a very sad addiction to broccoli. It wants me to collect up all of the broccoli in Ferelden, boil it up in a great big pot with a bit of butter and send it magically into the Fade."

Ser Ryan sighed, reaching up to rub at his temple. "All right, you _aren't _possessed," he conceded. "But you still haven't answered my question. Do you have a problem with Highever?" he asked. "It's not too late for us to turn back and return to the Tower of Magi."

"No, no, no!" she assured him hastily. "This is good! Highever is good! Let's just keep – you know - going. I'm just…" She cast him an intent look. "You don't find the word 'Highever' pleasant to say? It just rolls off the tongue and look, it's really embarrassingtoadmitookay?"

"Yes, no and what did you say?" Ser Ryan viewed her with expectant patience.

"Argh!" She threw her hands up into the air – at him? He didn't think he'd been particularly infuriating. He'd just been walking along, trying not to _lose _her. Again. "Look," she added, cutting into his thoughts, "you're from Highever right?"

"Yes," he said giving her a _look. _"I think that has been pretty well established."

"So am I," she admitted ruefully. "And when you mentioned Highever last night I thought 'Great! Wonderful! I can visit my own family'." Lifting a hand she ruffled her hair in frustration. It stuck up even more than it usually did, making her look like a very tall, agitated porcupine. "I have an elderly aunt I'd like to check on," she added. "When I first came to the Tower Greagoir promised he'd put some sort of arrangement in place to have her looked after. She's blind and she's on her own and with…" She took a deep breath. "And with the old Teyrn gone, and things all messed up with the civil war and this blasted Blight, I'd really like to know whether she's okay but…" She threw her hands up into the air again, looking even more distressed than before.

"I have _no idea _where she lives!" With a single wail of frustration, she stalked to the side of the road and sat down cross-legged in the sand, tucking her head into her arms. After a while Ser Ryan joined her, settling down beside her.

"You really don't know where she might be?" he asked. She shook her head. _No_. "Do you recall any landmarks in the area?" he asked. "Something significant?"

Her face reappeared, looking bright and hopeful. "Yes! I do remember!" she exclaimed. "There was a tree."

"A…tree…" Ser Ryan's gaze travelled along the length of the road to the end where it was swallowed by the horizon. On either side of the road were…trees. Highever was farming country for the most part right up to the coast. While there were plenty of fishing communities dotted along the coastline overlooking the Waking Sea, the Teyrns of Highever had been diligent in encouraging their people to nuture a green landscape. There were lots of trees to be found, though he had to admit if it had been an unusual tree for the area; such as a particularly elderly Chestnut that the whole village had been famous for or a tree bent into a humorous shape…

Ser Ryan cleared his throat. "Can you remember what kind of tree it was?" he asked, preparing himself mentally for the answer.

"It was a big one," she added enthusiastically. "With great big branches. Very leafy."

Ser Ryan debated whether he should point out that she had described every tree in Ferelden, never mind Highever.

"I was young," she grimaced again, adding a regretful sigh. "Look, I know Highever covers a large area, but…" she told him. "Her name is Mildred Amell. You…wouldn't have heard of any Amells in the area would you?"

He shook his head. "I'm from Greenfell," he told her. "There weren't any Amells there. Highever's a big place as you say, though…" There _was_ a place where they could find out. The Teyrn's estate housed and maintained records of every person that was born, married and died in Highever. If Amell's aunt had been in the area for some time, it was quite possible there were records in the archives stating as much. The Teyrn's estate however, was the last place he was willing to go and if he did decide he was foolish enough to wander casually around Cousland Castle, attracting the attention of Rendon Howe's questionably competent soldiers, he certainly wouldn't do it before finding out what was going on in the area first. No, he'd go to Shepherd's Rest, check on his family, obtain information and _then_ make a decision.

"I wonder," she said suddenly. "If the Teyrn's estate kept a census of everyone in the area?" She turned to him. "I'd be able to find records of Aunt Mildred's address there, wouldn't I?"

Ser Ryan focused on the other side of the road, wiping his face of all expression, especially guilt. He hadn't intended to tell her about the archives. There was a tall tree in direct line of sight that he stared at with great concentration. It had a very interesting pattern in shedding bark. "Perhaps," he replied noncommittally. "For all we know Rendon Howe's soldiers might have destroyed the Teyrnir's records."

"Why would he do that?" Alyce frowned. "How would he know who to collect tithes from?"

She was already rummaging about in her pack for her map of Ferelden. She found it and unfolded it, laying it across her knees. He could hear her muttering under her breath about distances and possible routes. She uttered 'Greenfell' excitedly under her breath once, causing his eyes to stray involuntarily to the map. Greenfell was depressingly far from Cousland Castle and he just knew the moment when she decided…"Perfect! While you head off to see your folks, I can head direct to Cousland estate."

"No."

"See this road here? How it branches off towards the coast? We're _here. _The junction isn't too far down the main road. I could be in and out of Cousland…"

"No."

"…Castle before you could say 'tickle my whiskers'!"

"_No_, Amell."

"No, don't tickle my whiskers?" she asked, grey eyes wide and innocent.

"'No' as in 'we are not to be separated'," he clarified sternly, not taken in whatsoever by her wide-eyed look.

"Aw darn…" She elbowed his side. "I didn't know you felt that way about me, Ser Ryan, but you know," she pointed to herself, "Mage…" she crooked her finger at him "…_Templar_…" Wagging her finger in a mock scold, she added, "_Nuh_-uh! We don't want Greagoir's head exploding. We just cleaned up the Tower after all."

"Are you listening to me?" he demanded, rather redundantly as it turned out.

"What do you think?" she replied cheerfully. "Of course not. You're a Templar. I'm a Mage. Mages don't listen to Templars. We think they're all full of cuddly cotton wool and Holy Smites."

He stared at her, irritation clashing with amusement. He settled for ignorance. "I remind you that I have been charged with your safety while we travel," he told her plainly. "Rendon Howe's troops hold Castle Cousland. Until we determine the precise nature of any possible danger, I suggest we steer clear of the place."

She blew a raspberry at him.

"_Fine._ We'll go to your parents' place and then double back to Cousland Castle," she agreed. "By the time we get back onto the North Road and to the Tower, it'll be longer than we anticipated. By that time, Greagoir will be having kittens and Irving will wonder whether we've eloped. Not to mention the possibility that the Mages might've left to battle the Blight without me..." She glared at him. "I'm telling you, not asking; _I'm _going to Castle Coocoocochoo and _you're _going to do the happy family thing on your own…And _that's _my final word."

-oo-

_Bastard…_

"Maker, I hate Templars!" Alyce shouted in the dark, balled fists waving. "You're all a bunch of bloody no good…no gooders!"

He'd hit her with a Holy Smite. Somewhere along the line he'd drained her of her mana. That was becoming a bit of a bad habit with him. How many times was that now? Two…? Twenty four? She couldn't remember…"I can't remember because I've been Holy Smited so much my memory has been damaged! A pox on all Templars!" _Divine Ryan…? _Hah! More like _swine Ryan…_Moving about in the dark she tripped over something large and solid, pitching head first into the gloom. Seeing stars, she gingerly prodded at the top of her head, her fingertips coming away wet. _Great…now I have a bleeding head wound…_

She had regained consciousness in darkness. She had tried to illuminate her surroundings with a flame spell, finding she could do little else but send sad sparkles into the air. Wherever he had put her, he had sealed the place with some kind of sneaky Templar anti-magic, mana-draining thing. She didn't even know Templars could do that sort of thing. One day she'd write a book – if she ever got out of here – about the secret, nasty things that Templars could do and how they weren't to be trusted…He hadn't even explained _why _he had left her here…on her own. How long was he going to take? What if he was attacked by bandits and killed? Never came back? What if that had been his plan all along; to get rid of her? What if this was some nefarious plot by the Circle of Magi to do away with her?

Her spinning head conjured up an image of Knight Commander Greagoir congratulating Ser Ryan on his return to the Tower…_"And a job well done taking out the rubbish, Ser Ryan! Here, have an extra purple sash…"_

"_Why thank you Knight Commander, it was my pleasure…I shall wear this sash with pride…"_ The Ser Ryan in her head turned and grinned toothily at her, white teeth glinting heroically in the sunlight.

"Yeah, and you know what, Ser 'I'm so suave' Ryan? You're not that great looking anyway!" she screeched at the image. "And your mother wears hobnail boots!"

"Hello?"

Alyce sprang to her feet. She held her hands protectively in front of her. Not that it would have done her any good, she supposed, but she was sure she had heard a voice outside. Cocking her head, she yelled, "Hello! Is there someone out there?"

"Is there someone inside?"

In the darkness, Alyce rolled her eyes. "No, of course not," she replied sarcastically. "You're just hearing things!"

"Well, okay then. Bye."

"No, wait!" Alyce tripped over the solid lump on the ground again, this time something cut into her shoulder when she fell. Where in Thedas was she? In a torture device storeroom? "I'm here! I'm here! I'm here!" she yelled.

"You sure?" the voice asked, sounding unconvinced.

"Look," Alyce explained. "A…very bad man locked me up in here and I need to get out to find my elderly Aunt!"

"Really?"

"Yes! Really!" Alyce shuffled forward slowly towards the voice, her arms held out once more. "She might be in danger and I need to warn her. Will you _please_ let me out of here?"

"Oh. Well, all right then…"

Something crashed against the side of her makeshift prison. There was the sound of metal straining and wood splintering. A huge chunk of the wall appeared to simply disintegrate. Blinding light flooded through the hole just created. Squinting and blinking furiously, her eyes watering, Alyce found rough hands hauling her outside into the sunshine. Hurled unceremoniously onto the ground, Alyce looked up through streaming eyes. There wasn't just the one person who had rescued her…though perhaps 'rescue' might not be an appropriate word…

"Well now," the voice said. It belonged to a soldier – an officer by the look of him – wielding a maul. It was this that had crashed through the lock and wood of what appeared to be a small tool shed.

"This is a bit interesting…Hey, lads come and have a look at this. Don't see women dressed like this every day…"

Alyce drew her knees more tightly together, automatically pulling the hem of her 'robes' lower. If she ever had a chance to see Neria again, she would _really _tell the elf what she thought of her fashion sense.

Two more soldiers joined the first at his sides. They leered and snickered as soldiers with nothing better to do but prowl remote country lanes were wont to do. Alyce rolled her eyes, thinking of _lightning…_but all she managed was to make the ground around her fizz a little. _Damn Ser Ryan! _

The officer loomed over her. "So…" he said. "You're looking for your elderly Aunt, aye?" He cast a very professional sneer over his shoulder at his men. Alyce was impressed. He must have spent all morning practicing that sneer so it would look like he was actually being mocking rather than say, constipated.

"Look here," he added. He tapped his chest, "I'm your poor old Aunt, and these here are your long lost Uncles."

One of the soldiers chortled. "Yeah," he said. "Why don't you come sit on yer Uncle's knee?"

"Now, now gentlemen," the officer held his arms out wide, as though making some effort to restrain his men. _Ice…_Alyce thought, feeling the hairs on the back of her hand stand on end and nothing more. "Let's be nice. There's a lady present." _Fire…_Alyce concentrated hard to no avail. _What the blazes did Ryan hit me with?_ "And the lady gets to choose who goes first…"

_Lightning. _Nothing. _Fire. _Still nothing. _Come on…these are basic spells…the first ones we ever learn…Ice…Stinging swarm…Mind blast…paralysis…repulsion…Damn, damn, damn…_The officer was grinning down at her as she began inching away. He handed his maul to one of his soldiers and reached down to his waist, unbuckling his belt. _Oh, wonderful…_she thought sourly. _No wine, no flowers, no romantic dinner, just a sneer and a 'let's get on with it lads'…The next time I see you Ser Ryan, I'm going to be very, very, VERY cross…_

-oo-

Not for the first time since they had left the Tower did Ser Ryan wish he had been allowed to travel in his Templar uniform. The fall of the Teyrnir to the Arl of Amaranthine and civil war in the Bannorn had made the people here view anyone wearing armour or a sword with deep suspicion. This was his _home, _where he'd been born and had grown up and he was still treated as a stranger, not to be trusted. A Templar at the very least might have been given the time of day as a neutral party.

It bothered him that most of the shops on the main street of Greenfell Village were closed. Some looked as though they had been abandoned for some time; windows boarded with salt crusted planks. Even the Smithy looked shut – he had been hoping to stop there first – no smoke issued from the tall forge chimney. The only thing that appeared to be open was the village's single inn and it was here that he found himself, scanning the crowd for a friendly face. There was none to be had in the smoky din; with Howe's soldiers lining the main counter and taking up most of the tables. He found himself being watched warily as he made his way to the serving desk. It was manned by a broad-shouldered, bearded man who looked vaguely familiar, but Ryan could not recall the name. He remembered he and Bryant sneaking in here as teens to chat up the serving wenches. There was one in particular; a cute little strawberry blonde lass at least ten years older than himself, but he hadn't cared at the time…

"You staying here, stranger?" the bearded man asked him. "Or just passing through?" The bearded man beckoned him closer, adding in a quieter voice, "I'd advise the latter, if you'll take my advice."

"I'm here to visit family," Ser Ryan informed him quietly, setting down a handful of coppers onto the counter. The bearded man gave him a keen look, swept the coins off the counter and turned away. He returned a few minutes later with a full tankard of dark amber liquid. Ser Ryan took a sip, expecting the ale to be watered down but was pleasantly surprised. Slightly cooler than room temperature, a single mouthful felt truly like _home_…He drank thirstily, wishing he could bring a flagon or two back to the Tower with him…_The Tower…Alyce…_He replaced the tankard, now empty, to the counter, turning to go. It wouldn't do to linger here. He didn't want to attract attention and the sooner he went to Shepherd's Rest, the sooner he could return to the abandoned farm where he'd left Amell.

By the time he did, she would probably be raging mad and ready to take his head off with a well-aimed rock fist. He had his reasons. On his own, he could wander about a little without being noticed too much. With Alyce…dressed in that scrap of shiny material…the two of them might as well walk about with placards affixed to their backs saying, _The Regent is a Big Girl's Blouse_ and _Howe Is A Little Lap Dog_.

He stepped out into the street, revelling in the fresh air and sunshine. He'd gone as far as the old bakery when he realised someone was following him. He paused by the wooden carving of a cake, pretending to adjust a strap on his greaves. A darkish shape slipped out of his peripheral vision to hide rather clumsily behind a tree. Ser Ryan straightened. He knew there was a laneway behind the bakery that gave access to most of the shops along this side of the street. He strolled casually past the bakery, towards a single-storey house then sidestepped quickly into the narrow space between the two buildings. Picking his way carefully over barrels and crates, he circled around the back of the bakery, inching rapidly towards the front. He stopped, crouching low.

He could tell who had been following him by the furtive gait and the fact that the large man wore a hood pulled down low over his face. Giving his head a shake at the obvious, Ser Ryan waited until the man had just gone past before leaping out from his hiding place, hooking an arm around the man's neck and hauling him back behind the bakery. He drew his sword when the man struggled – he was bigger and stronger than Ser Ryan expected – holding the blade under the man's chin.

"Why are you following me?" Ser Ryan hissed.

"I'm…Ry…You know me, dammit!"

Ser Ryan dropped his arm, springing backward. "Geraint?" he exclaimed. The large man swivelled about, his eyes widening at something behind Ryan; who turned a fraction too late. There was an awful cracking sound. Ser Ryan realised it had been his skull making that noise as his vision dropped out as well as everything else.

-oo-


	21. Little Brother

-oo-

**Chapter 21 – Little Brother**

Ser Ryan wasn't too sure whether he had woken up with the pain in his head; or whether the pain in his head had woken him up. He didn't much care. All he cared – and wanted - was it to stop soon. His hearing was muffled by the pounding of his skull; a drum beat that appeared to start from the back of his head and made its way to the base of his spine. He remembered being hit from behind. So why did his kidneys hurt? Actually, everything seemed to hurt. It felt as though he'd been rolled down a rocky hill, pummelled with a mace, then left to partially freeze overnight. As a distraction from the pain, he cast his memory back, trying to remember the last thing he'd been doing up to this point…to being _captured_. Panic had him scrambling to sit upright, immediately regretting doing so. Several waves of nausea, dizziness and sharp pain assailed him one after another, the nausea lingering, his stomach wanting to flee his body cavity in sheer distress.

He had to get up and out of here…wherever in the Maker's name _here _was. There was what appeared to be a picture on the wall and a rug on the floor, so perhaps he wasn't in a cell...Still, with no idea how long he'd been unconscious his panic intensified. He had to get back to Amell…No, first he had to get out of here…_Andraste's smoking smallclothes why won't my head work properly?_

"So, Ser Ryan…" a cool voice startled him. He blinked blearily, unable to clear his eyesight completely. It added to the list of things to be worried about.

"_Alyce_?" he croaked. Had she been captured too?

"We weren't to be separated, _hm_?" Her voice sounded like cold iron to his ears. He winced.

His vision cleared, resolving itself into a long limbed, angry shape seated nearby. Her arms were crossed and she was regarding him with a mixture of irritation, relief and something else he couldn't identify. He knew he would have some explaining to do when he saw her next. He would have liked to have asked her how she managed to…_leave_ the place where he'd left her. Obviously she'd had help, but…his gaze found the long red gash on her shoulder.

"You're hurt," he said, eyes widening, not liking at all where his mind was going when it tried to come up with an explanation for her injury.

"You're hurter…hurt…more…" she corrected herself. "Oh for pity's sake…" Placing her hands firmly on his chest, she pushed him back down, scowling. "Fractured skull, you ninny," she explained. "You need rest."

"We need to get out of here…" he began urgently.

"Lie back down or I'm going to have his Lordship break your head again."

Ser Ryan's vision seemed to drop out again. When it returned it was fuzzy once more. He squinted at her while she fussed with his pillow. "His Lordship?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with a grazed knuckle. "What do you mean? Are we safe here? How did you…? What happened? How did you get injured?"

"What?" she demanded. "All these questions? No, 'I'm sorry for knocking you out and locking you up in a dark shed and deserting you to a fate worse than death'? Golly Ser Ryan…" She sniffed haughtily. Sitting back, she polished the nails of one hand on her 'robes' and inspected the shine with a pair of raised, critical eyebrows. "I think you had better watch yourself. You're really not looking very good in my Official Post-Trip Status Report. The way you're going, you'll be lucky if they don't strip you of your purple sash and assign you permanently to kitchen duty…"

"Alyce…" He tried rising again. It was a feeble attempt made even more pathetic by another wave of dizziness and a sudden need to expel the scant contents of his stomach very rapidly. If he was going to embarrass himself, he might as well do it in front of Amell so she could laugh at him. Maker, it was all he deserved. What in Thedas had the girl had to go through…'A fate worse than death'…? "I'm sorry…" His words came out strained, his throat burning from bile and stomach acid. He sought out her hand, bringing it apologetically to his lips.

"Hm…" she said, pushing the pail underneath the cot with her toe and reaching over to the bedside table. "Have you always apologised by smearing vomit over a person's hand? If not, I feel so…so _special._" At his stricken look, Alyce finally relented. There was a shallow basin of water on the table and a cloth, which she dunked, squeezed and used to wipe his face. "You must be more badly injured than I thought…" she told him. "This head wound is making you uncharacteristically sappy." Rinsing out the cloth, she threw it over the bedstead to dry, then sat back down, a pitying look on her face. Even with his intermittently blurring eyesight, he could see she was tired – not physically tired, but mana-drained. She'd been using magic - and a lot of it - lately. On him? Or someone else?

"Look," she told him, "All you need to know right now is that we're both safe here." She touched his cheek. His skin tingled and he could feel the pain draining away to a dull ache.

"You shouldn't do that," he told her sternly. "I'm not the only one who needs rest here. You won't need any of my Templar techniques to deplete your mana if you continue."

She snorted, rolling her eyes at him. "Certainly, Mr Pot…or are you Mr Kettle? You can decide. Anyway," she added. He knew that look. She was worried and was trying not to look worried. It made her slightly cross-eyed. "The sooner you recover, the sooner we can get moving," she said. "It seems we've landed ourselves in a bit of a fix here." _A bit? _He stared at her. _Just _a bit? "Your family are here – no don't try and get up again! – they're fine. There are…other people, but you can hear about them when you're feeling a little less like cotton wool and more…Holy Smite."

He grinned at that, eliciting another snort of disbelief from her. "Huh!" She sounded like Senior Enchanter Wynne when she did that. "A smile as well! Next you'll be reciting sonnets at me and telling me I have beautiful eyes and _then_ I'd be forced to be _really _worried."

His grin widened. "I can't recall any sonnets at the moment," he admitted, agreeing with the cotton woolliness. "But you do have beautiful eyes…"

"Bloody idiot," she told him, but was she smiling? Or was it his imagination? "When you start feeling embarrassed about what you've just said, you'll know you're on the road to recovery." A knock sounded on the door; tentative, as though it did not wish to disturb. Alyce called out to the visitor, the door swinging wide. She stood up, finding her hand being claimed by his once more.

"You…won't stay…?" Ser Ryan frowned.

"I have to go and…check on something, but I'll be back," she promised. "You have a visitor to keep you company in any case." She stepped aside, revealing a broad-shouldered young man with a thatch of mussed dark hair, one thick lock falling low over his worried forehead. The lad had grown a good six inches since Ryan had seen him last and had put on quite a bit of muscle as well. There was even a bit of a shadow around the once-smooth chin, making him seem older, but the large hazel eyes were still the same he remembered from his youth.

"Geraint…" Ser Ryan chuckled as the young man beamed at him. "Haven't you stopped growing yet?"

The young man passed his hand through his hair, cheeks turning slightly pinker. "Heh. I don't know. Mother thinks not." Seeing this as her cue to leave the two men to do whatever brotherly things they needed to do, Alyce moved towards the door, wiggling her fingers in parting at the both of them. Ser Ryan watched his brother watch Alyce walk out of the door, not quite approving of the look on Geraint's face. "I…I _like_ your mage…" the young man breathed appreciatively. "I think I know why you became a Templar. Are all mages as pretty as Miss Alyce?"

"It's 'Enchanter Amell'," Ryan gently corrected him. "And she's not my…"

"Good."

Ser Ryan's eyes narrowed; he shot his brother a disapproving look, spoiled slightly by his vision swimming out of focus again and having to blink rapidly to clear it. _Damn my eyes…!_ The rapidity of his brother's response had surprised him, along with its meaning. He wasn't too sure which to be more agitated about; the fact that his baby brother was old enough to be interested in a _girl, _or that Geraint had chosen that girl to be Amell... "She's older than you, you know," Ryan said, unable to keep the chilliness out of his voice.

Geraint turned a blindingly charming smile on him. "Actually, I think I might be a month older." _They exchanged birth dates? _And since when was Geraint that old? When had Alyce turned younger?

"She's a mage," Ryan added, unable to meet his brother's gaze.

"So?" Geraint shrugged, unconcerned by this small, unimportant detail. "Mages can get married, can't they?" Ser Ryan stared at him. _He's thinking of marriage…? Already? _The sooner the two of them left Highever, the better, it seemed. "And you forget…" his brother threw himself into the chair that Alyce had just vacated. The legs creaked under the younger man's bulk, looking ridiculously small and barely able to contain the weight. "_I'm _not a Templar…or a Chantry Brother."

"I have been charged with her safety and wellbeing," Ryan told him coolly. "Regardless," It was time to steer the conversation away from Amell. "What's been going on here? Why was I attacked?"

His brother looked slightly sheepish. "Well…long story…but I can't tell you now. I promised Alyce…"

"_Enchanter_ Amell."

"…Aly-cheeks," Geraint corrected mid-speech, "I wouldn't tell you. I was to ensure that you kept quiet and wasn't agitated in any way." _Aly-cheeks?_ Ryan stared at his brother in horror. _Where in Andraste's name did that come from?_ _And how can I send it back? _"Oh now, I've gone and upset you. Sorry." His brother did not sound sorry at all, Ryan thought sourly, a long, tense silence dragging out between them. It was broken when both of them spoke at the same time:

"So how is father?" "So she doesn't have a beau?"

Ser Ryan glared at the ceiling. "I'm not going to answer that question."

"Fine," Geraint folded his massive arms across his chest and stuck his nose stubbornly in the air. "And I'm not going to answer yours."

-oo-

Alyce stepped out into the sunshine. There was little of it today; the day having started out sullen and threatening damp. The sun had been persistent for a short while. Determined to have its way it had wrestled the clouds aside, forcing rays of warmth upon the autumn-chilled ground, but as the day wore on, even the sun appeared to lose the will to stay. Alyce stood under a single patch of brightness now with eyes closed, drinking in the brief warmth before a bank of heavy grey swept it away. A chilled breeze blew, raising goosebumps on the exposed skin of her arms. She leant her back against a tree, sinking slowly to the ground. She had not been this bone-weary since Ostagar.

They had been in Greenfell for two full days. By her reckoning they should have arrived at the Tower of Magi by now, but quite apart from the fact that Ser Ryan was in no fit state for travel, she could not leave these people to struggle on their own. The new Teyrn was not popular and the people of Highever made sure he and his soldiers knew it. Rebellion was rampant, but Howe's soldiers were not shy when it came to retaliation and retribution and that meant casualties, injuries; destroyed property and broken people. The only good thing about being so tired was that it seemed to keep the nightmares at bay…or perhaps she slept so deeply that she didn't notice or remember the nightmares on waking.

On the other hand, she didn't need to dream when the faces of the people she treated continued to haunt her thoughts the rest of the day. She still saw the soldiers in her head. That one moment when they realised she was a mage…

Something touched her shoulder. Alyce jumped, realising she had fallen asleep. She turned to behold possibly the most beautiful woman she had ever seen – and that was even in comparison with Neria. Where her mage friend was cool starshine and glittering jewels however, the woman beside her was golden honey and warm chicken soup…although the soup simile was probably because that was what the woman was offering her, a big bowl of it, along with a mug of steaming tea.

"Here," the woman smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "You haven't eaten all day. You'll need to keep your strength up."

Alyce thanked her, taking the bowl and mug. She felt awkward and gangling in the woman's presence, placing the mug self-consciously upon the ground while she balanced the bowl in her lap.

"You've been working very hard," the woman said, settling down beside her, encircling her knees with long shapely arms. _Did the Maker create people like this to make people like me feel like stick figures?_ Alyce wondered dismally. "I also…" the woman added haltingly, "wanted to thank you for looking after my brother."

"Brother?" Alyce struggled around a mouthful of crusty bread.

_Brother…_Alyce thought hard, the pieces falling into place in her head. There was certainly a family resemblance.

"I wanted to ask…" the woman began somewhat reluctantly, "…you and my brother Ryan…"

Alyce froze with a mouth full of soup. She chewed and swallowed hastily, choking a little on a piece of carrot. "Me and your brother Ryan…?" Alyce repeated, uncomfortable about where this was going.

"You and he…You were both at Ostagar, were you not?"

"Oh!" Ostagar_… _Oh, _Ostagar…_The realisation that she knew where this conversation was now headed, eclipsed the fear of the direction she _thought _the conversation had been going. "Ostagar…" Alyce chewed on her bottom lip. "We…were. Yes."

"I see," the woman said softly. "I see…"

"Did you know someone who fought with the King's army?" Alyce asked. Clearly this was more difficult for this pretty woman than it was for her so she felt compelled to prompt conversation along.

The woman nodded. "My husband," she admitted with a sad tilt of her chin. "He was part of Teyrn Cousland's army. Since Ostagar, some soldiers have returned, but not Byron…" She stared into the distance, eyes empty of hope. "The stories some of them tell…Some won't even speak of it, finding it too awful a tale to relay, but I hear the monsters…the _darkspawn…_they still advance across Ferelden. Is this true?"

"I wish it weren't," Alyce sighed. "And I wish I could tell you news of your husband, but I was with the mages. The…" Alyce wracked her memory, trying to recall the various conversations about the army camp then. "If I recall correctly, the Teyrn's son had been tasked with scouting the Wilds. They were not to return until after the main battle."

"The one that the King lost?" she asked.

"That's…one way of putting it…" Alyce said carefully.

"I heard that the General…"

"_Wennie?_"

The woman looked up. So did Alyce. Ser Ryan was crossing the small garden towards them. Alyce put down her bowl at the same time that the woman beside her launched herself at Ryan. Alyce got quietly to her feet, holding the mug of tea to her chest, beginning to tip toe away. She had intended to sneak back inside, but just as she lifted one foot, Ser Ryan called to her.

"I see you've met Enchanter Amell," Ryan smiled down at the woman. To Alyce, he said, "And you've met my sister." Alyce grimaced in sour defeat before arranging her features into an expression more pleasant before turning it upon them. Standing, the woman appeared much smaller, the top of her head falling just under the lower edge of Ser Ryan's right pauldron. It was the perfect height for him to place an arm comfortably across her shoulder.

"And I see you're up and about," Alyce said, holding the tea in front of her like a shield.

"I thought it was about time that I was," he agreed. "Morwenna," he began. "Could you excuse Enchanter Amell and I for a moment?" Softening his tone of voice, he looked down on his sister again. "I promise I won't be long. I'm keen to see Mother."

Morwenna slid her gaze speculatively towards the young mage, hoping to glean some clues as to what kind of relationship she and her brother had, but Alyce gave nothing away, staring intently up into the tree and making odd popping noises with her mouth. Giving a shrug, Morwenna stepped away, casting one last look over her shoulder at the two of them. Ser Ryan waited until his sister had left the garden completely before stepping up to Alyce. "You promised me an explanation," he reminded her. "I spoke to Geraint. He said the both of us arrived two days ago. _Alyce, _what happened? How did you manage to escape my anti-magic wards?''

"Hah!" she waved a finger triumphantly at him. "You said the 'E' word. Escape! So you admit that you did a bad, bad thing by locking me up?"

"I've already apologised," he reminded her tersely.

Alyce blew a sceptical bubble of air at him. "Some apology…"

"Just tell me whether they harmed you or not!" he yelled at her.

Startled by the sudden burst of anger, Alyce dropped her mug of tea, splashing her boots. It wasn't a loss. They were a mess anyway. Ser Ryan was immediately apologetic at his outburst, turning from her to try and compose himself. Alyce backed up against the tree, viewing him with approval.

"So…" she said. "The Serene Templar does have a temper after all…"

"I do not…" he began, then sighed. "Please answer my question."

"No," she told him. "They scared the periwinkles out of me, but they didn't get a chance to get to me."

"Then how…?"

"The soldiers did find me, that is true," she began nervously. "They're the ones that released me; a rather lusty trio of the worst dressed soldiers I've ever…" catching his expression, Alyce changed her conversational direction. "I found out why these blasted robes are cut so high." She kicked a leg out. "You can run bloody fast in them. Faster than in normal mage robes anyway. All I had to do was get far enough away from your wards. My magic came back then…" _Oh, their faces…the expressions on the soldiers when they realised she was a mage…_"These robes have been enchanted to amplify magic…" she explained quietly, her voice taking on an _edge._ "Tevinters…" _Andraste's _blood_ their expressions…_Her bravado deserted her abruptly. Alyce felt suddenly drained of warmth. Wrapping her arms about herself she lowered herself back down to the ground.

"What happened Alyce?" Ser Ryan asked quietly. "What happened to the soldiers?"

Alyce gave a single, humourless, self-deprecating huff of laughter. "Decorating the landscape," she said. Fingers digging into the flesh of her arms she added in a shaking voice, "I killed three people I hadn't meant to. I only meant…" She had been terrified, repeating spells over and over in her head in desperation. The moment her magic came back to her she had been in the middle of a fire spell. Amplified by her fear and the enchantments built into her robes, she had incinerated them in a single blast. _And I never want to see that again…Ever…_

Ser Ryan passed a hand over his face. He sat down beside her.

"Please don't tell me I did the right thing," she whispered the warning. "I could have paralysed them, sent them a misdirection hex. I could have gotten away. I didn't have to _kill _them."

"From what Geraint tells me of Howe's men, they would have done worse to you," Ser Ryan reminded her.

"That doesn't make it any better!" she shot at him. "It just makes me…it just makes me as bad as they are…were…" She dropped her head miserably onto her knees, staring at the blades of grass between her boots, but not really seeing them. In her mind they were only a wash of colour, interspersed with the vision of three melting humans…_This is the part where he tells me all about Aeonar…_Instead, to her astonishment, she found his arm slipping around her shoulders, drawing her close. She startled into looking at his face in surprise, finding his hand coming up to force her head downwards. The top of her head bumped his chestplate.

"Ow."

"I think you'll find it still within scope of my present duties to offer you some kind of…comfort…" he told her in his official Templar voice.

"Sap," she accused him, trying to stop trembling. He gave a lock of her unruly hair a tug.

After a while, he sighed. "Two days…the First Enchanter must be wondering where you are by now. Have you been able to send a message?"

"No," Alyce tried to shake her head, locked as it was in his armhold. "Howe's soldiers are watching the border too closely. People are being stopped and searched now. _We_ were lucky to have gotten through mostly unnoticed."

Ser Ryan frowned. "Searching?" he asked. "Why? What are they looking for?"

"Oh," she waved a hand in the air. It was still shaking. "Proof of the rumours going about."

"What rumours?"

"…the rumour that Teyrn Cousland is alive…"

Ser Ryan went perfectly still…not that he wasn't moving a great deal before this particular piece of news…"And…" he asked carefully. "Is it? True, that is?"

"Maaaaaaaaybe…"

-oo-


	22. Under the Oak Tree

A/N: I don't know why, but when I started this I thought I could finish this story in ten chapters or less…I suppose that's what happens when you let a _snail _write…

Thank you to all of you reviewers, readers and reviewer-readers (reavers? !) for sticking around so far. You're all amazing…I am frequently overwhelmed by your very kind words. Also apologies for the tardy update…Chapter had been written which was half again the size of previous chapters but wouldn't play nicely until I'd removed certain characters…and rewritten basically…_everything._

-oo-

**Chapter 22 – Under the Oak Tree**

Alyce closed the door quietly behind her, leaning against it in relief. Squeezing her eyes closed she sighed, glad to be out of there.

_Well, _she thought. _That was awkward…_

She wasn't too sure which had been more uncomfortable; the fact that both brothers wanted her to meet Mum and Dad and had argued over who would perform the introductions…or the fact that it had turned out to be an incredibly embarrassing moment for both men. Well…_she _thought it had been embarrassing at any rate. Geraint had spent most of his time studying the knots in the wood of the beams above his head. Ser Ryan had looked…she didn't know how he looked really after that first glimpse. The one time she had looked over at him, he had seemed…well, like a child who'd been promised cake and sweets but had been presented with brussel sprouts with a side dish of boiled beans and had been far too well brought up to complain about it. His expression of deep shock and…sadness and something else she was beginning to see far too often…_guilt…_had made her turn away, focusing instead on a water jug in a far corner.

Guilt…Perhaps it was simply a Chantry thing. Ser Ryan had spent fifteen years of his life in service to the Prophet and her begging bowl after all. Andrastians were taught to feel guilt from a young age that it became second nature to most of them. According to the Chantry, if Andrastians didn't feel enough guilt to spend their entire lives atoning for their meagre existence, then the whole point of atoning would be wasted and the Big-M wouldn't return (continuing, Alyce suspected, whatever godlike activity he'd been doing in the Black City…sudden death croquet competitions, playing Pin the Tail on the Pestilence and throwing long dinner parties involving scintillatingly _boring_ deities). Alyce disagreed, obviously, being a mage and therefore automatically exempt from salvation. Or perhaps it had been Torrin's influence to always question, but she preferred to believe that there were enough gods in Thedas at the moment, thank you. Since the Archdemon was a god (granted, one that had been tainted by the darkspawn…and well past re-education programs designed to introduce it back into polite society), one more recalcitrant, reluctant god peevishly digging in his godlike hooves and remaining out of reach was a good thing…_Yup, we're good on the god population here, thanks…no more room at the inn and all of that._

And what was wrong with Ser Ryan anyway? Her mind wandered casually to another topic before she was struck by lightning. Had he been permanently damaged from the blow to the back of his head...? He'd gone all…_soft _and gooey like a bowl of icing left out in the rain…or…well, he just wasn't being Ser Ryan, is all. It was…creepy. She was beginning to look forward – _really _looking forward - to fighting darkspawn soon. Just as soon as she finished up here…

Really.

Soon.

Maybe.

The door rattled in warning just before it opened. She hopped to the side just in time, Geraint striding out on a long exhaled breath. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it with a sigh, just as Alyce had. He straightened, startling when he realised Alyce had been standing next to him in the corridor. She raised her eyebrows at him in enquiry.

"Maker's breath!" he exclaimed softly. "I would have thought you would have run screaming for the hills by now."

She indicated her ornate silverite and leather boots with a twist of an ankle. "Can't run up hills in these," she explained helpfully. "Strictly flat surfaces only."

He glanced at the door then indicated with a tilt of his head that the two of them adjourn to a slightly more comfortable space. Alyce readily agreed, leading the way down the hall, back through the kitchens to the manor garden. She stopped under her favourite oak. In a short space of time since their arrival in Greenfell, the overgrown bit of greenery between the main house and the summer cottage had become something of a refuge for Alyce. Half wild and dotted with grizzled old trees, overgrown shrubberies and hidden pathways, Alyce found she could sit in amongst the tall grass unnoticed for ages, just catching her breath or enjoying what little sunshine was to be had in between tending to the injured and running errands. It had also made hiding from Ser Ryan a bit easier…not that she had had any reason to hide from him exactly, or avoid him, or…

"You're angry at my brother."

Alyce looked up in surprise at Geraint, looking away almost immediately. It felt _odd _to have to look up to a man. She hadn't done that in years and it felt very strange. Feeling her cheeks warm unexpectedly, she forced her expression into one of disapproval.

"Angry?" she sniffed loftily. "What makes you think I'm angry at Ser Ryan?"

Geraint chuckled. "Oh, I don't know; the silent stares, the heated loo…" He halted abruptly, a frown wrinkling his forehead. As Alyce waited expectantly for him to finish his sentence, he reached up to the branch above her head and; plucking a single leaf, tucked it behind her ear. It caused her scowl to deepen. "The leaf of an oak tree," he explained, shifting the conversation firmly to safer ground. "In these parts it's associated with magic…"

Alyce touched the leaf, bemused by the gesture. "Magic is the work of evil," she reminded him. "A curse of the Maker…"

"Not that kind of magic," he laughed softly. "I'm talking about faeries…sprites…tiny woodfolk who only come out at night and dance around toadstool rings…"

Alyce stared at him, as though he had sprouted magical folk of his own from his head. "Aren't fairies those biting, flying things that steal babies and replace them with acorns or something like that?" she asked.

Geraint crossed his arms, shaking his head at her. "You're a very difficult woman to please, do you know that?"

She grinned, unable to maintain any kind of sourness or anger against him. "I try my best." Her smile however, was short-lived, eyes straying to the narrow window on the second floor of the big house, just visible through the canopy of the oak tree. "How long has he been like that?" she asked softly. "Your father…?"

Geraint sighed. He ran a calloused hand through his dark hair, grimacing a little. "For as long as I've known him," he confessed. "Ryan and Morwenna told me how he used to be." Seeing her eyebrows rise, he added hastily. "I was sort of a late child. Ry and Wennna were eight or nine when I was born, Bryant thirteen or so. I didn't really get a chance to know my oldest brother too well before he left to join the Order." He gave his head a shake, backing up against the wide trunk of the oak. "And my father had begun to show…_signs_ that things weren't quite right by then. According to mother he deteriorated rapidly some time after my first birthday. Father had to leave the Order. Most Templars when they…go that way tend to stay on though. They get looked after by the Sisters, but mother wouldn't let him." He grinned at the memory. "She said she wouldn't trust them to look after a boiled egg in a basket."

Alyce joined him by the tree, hugging her elbows as she idly butted her head against the trunk. "And I thought all Templars took a vow of chastity…" she sighed, thinking either Ser Ryan's father must have managed some kind of an exemption, or else he had been a very naughty little Templar…once, twice…she looked up at the window again. Morwenna and Ser Ryan were twins_…thrice…_She wondered whether there would have been more tiny Ryans and Geraints if Ser Gavin's lyrium hadn't turned to poison in his veins.

"No, not all Templars," Geraint corrected her, "just most of them. Bryant certainly did – and Ry too, though why, I could never figure out…" He shook his head at the absurdity of any red-blooded Ferelden male wanting to take a vow of _chastity…_especially if they knew they were likely to spend a large amount of time in a Tower full of pretty young mages…His eyes slid automatically towards Alyce. Or perhaps it was _because_ they knew they would_.._.

"Anyway," he added logically, "I'm grateful. If father had taken that particular vow, well…none of us would exist." His grin widened. "And even if he had, he would have ended up breaking them for mother anyway."

_Hah! _Alyce could definitely see that. Meeting Ser Ryan's mother, she could see why all her children were ridiculously good looking. Ser Ryan's mother was Nevarran, with skin of unblemished chocolate and eyes of such a deep, smouldering black that Alyce had felt like an insipid, colourless slug in comparison…though…Ser Ryan did look like his father more than either his twin sister or younger brother. Ser Gavin was a typical Ferelden male…pale but sun-hardened, with ordinary blue eyes and hair that had once been the colour of new copper, now snow white, his eyebrows and neatly trimmed beard the only indication he had once been a redhead. He also had that stubborn Fereldan-male jaw. Ser Ryan had _definitely _inherited that from his father. She'd seen him employ it on a number of occasions.

Geraint on the other hand had much softer features like his mother, though the rest of him was anything but soft…having a blacksmith's physique – which he had quite helpfully demonstrated to Alyce – much to Ser Ryan's disapproval.

Alyce glanced surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye at Geraint. Oh…she definitely had to introduce Neria to this one…Her mage friend went all dewy-eyed and pink-cheeked over tall, muscled men…The fact that Geraint was neither a Templar or an ex-Templar would probably work in his favour as well. Of course there was the Grey Warden thing…

"Anyway…" Geraint continued, "it's not like we can do anything about it. Mother Mallol told us once the damage is done, there's nothing anyone can do, really…"

"Oh…! I'm such an…_idiot_…" Alyce slapped her forehead suddenly, her eyes going wide.

Geraint looked at his companion in surprise. "Hey, why?"

Alyce waved a hand in the air. She felt stupid. Truly. She was a complete dunce at times. It hadn't even occurred to her before and now that it had, she didn't know why it hadn't, seeing as how _obvious _the clues had been. She had simply assumed Ser Ryan took his dose of lyrium like every good little Templar – just out of her sight. But he didn't, did he?

The image of Ser Gavin begging his son Ryan not to take the 'blue powder' rose briefly in her mind. The moment of Ser Gavin's lucidity had been far too brief, but it had been impassioned. Clutching at Ser Ryan's hands, Ser Gavin had begged, pleaded, cried, until his mind had slipped abruptly from his grasp, returning to addressing Ser Ryan as 'Bryant', telling his second oldest how he should be glad of his younger brother's company in the Order. _Family's important Bryant, _Ser Gavin had told Ryan sternly. _You remember that. You get a chance, you look out for your little brother. He looks up to you…_

It had been at that point that Alyce had felt she had needed to leave the room. She hadn't wanted to see Ser Ryan like that.

"He…doesn't use lyrium, does he?" Alyce asked anyway. "Your brother?"

Geraint shrugged. "I don't know. I guess not. Mother'd receive bundles of lyrium from time to time from both Bryant and Ry – for father - I suppose. I never really thought about it…" _I bet you had, though…_Alyce thought fiercely at Geraint, then frowned.

"But the Chantry _forces _Templars to take lyrium. It's how they control them, isn't it?"

"You know," a deep voice resonated through the branches of the oak, "the Chantry aren't the control freaks people insist on believing they are…"

Both Alyce and Geraint jumped guiltily as Ser Ryan himself appeared through the hanging foliage, eyeing his younger brother with cool suspicion and Alyce with just as chilly disapproval. Clearly, she was a bad influence on his younger sibling and should not be allowed within spitting distance of the young blacksmith. Neither of them had seen or heard Ser Ryan approach.

"If you must know," Ser Ryan explained to Alyce specifically, "Knight Commander Greagoir does not enforce the use of lyrium amongst his men. He is however, quite strict on illegal trade of lyrium within the Tower of Magi."

"Ah…" Alyce murmured, thinking of closets_…_Godwin_…_Ser Carroll_…cookies…_There was a reason why Ser Carroll preferred his baked goodies to glow in the dark and it wasn't because he was trying to save on the expense of good quality tallow. It was also probably why Ser Carroll was never sent any further than the Spoiled Princess or given duties other than door duty…_It's been happening under our noses for as long as I've been at the Tower and I've never even noticed. Andraste's sainted knickers, I'm so clueless._ She could readily diagnose lyrium poisoning in anyone, but put a Templar uniform on the person and suddenly the meandering, abstract sentences and the glassy, empty stares were simply ordinary Templar behaviour.

Ser Ryan's stern disapproval increased as he continued to regard the mage. "I was chosen by the Knight Commander to accompany you to Denerim and back because I am not as reliant on lyrium for either my ability to administer mages _or_ my wellbeing as some others under his command are," he explained coolly. "Had I been dependant on lyrium, I would have been a liability, should anything have happened to my supply whilst outside the Tower."

"Ah…" Alyce cringed, unable to avoid Ser Ryan's discomfiting, yet persistent gaze.

"And this brings me," Ser Ryan continued relentlessly, "to my next, pressing subject." He pinned her with a look worthy of the Knight Commander himself. "It is time we returned to the Tower of Magi," he stated. "I regret the added days to our schedule – the fault is entirely my own – a mistake I intend to redress. The sooner we return; the better."

"Ah…" Alyce began again, her fists balling at her sides with a determination she was finding hard to muster under Ser Ryan's Templar-ish glare. "Well…" she added, "about that…" Avoiding Geraint's curious grin, she met Ser Ryan's gaze squarely, willing her own eyes not to water. "Um…" she began again. "No."

"No?" Ser Ryan inclined his head.

"No," Alyce confirmed. "I'm not…going? I mean: I am not going."

"Really?"

"I'm not leaving here."

Ser Ryan's stubborn, Ferelden-male chin lifted ever so slightly. "Oh?" he enquired, deceptively quiet.

"I'm not leaving," she told him simply, ignoring the nervous tremble that had crept into her voice. "I'm not going to abandon these people," she said, surprising herself by the relative calm of her statement.

"Alyce, there is a _Blight…_" he began.

"I am not abandoning these people!" Alyce exclaimed. _Not your family, Ser Ryan and not Aunt Mildred, wherever she is…_"I won't abandon the Couslands…not after what they've been through. They support the Grey Wardens and Teyrn Cousland will support Neria against the Regent in the Landsmeet; show the nobles of Ferelden what a traitorous, back-stabbing poop-head he is!"

Ser Ryan continued to stare. "Are you sure, Enchanter Amell," he asked in a chilly voice, "that you are doing this for the Grey Wardens, and not out of your own self-interest?"

Alyce reeled, as though physically struck. Lightning crackled involuntarily at her fingertips. "That's…" she began, finding it hard to breathe. "That's not…" _fair…_

"Loghain is dead, Enchanter Amell…" he informed her, with such a lack of emotion she felt a chill creep over her skin. The words hit her ears, but they were having trouble making it to her brain. "What?" she asked stupidly.

"I heard this most interesting news from his Lordship just now," Ser Ryan told them both. "This is apparently why the Grey Wardens were in Denerim. The Arl of Redciffe called a Landsmeet in order to dispute the Regent's claim to the throne. It voted against him. Despite this outcome, Loghain challenged the Wardens to a duel. He lost." The corner of his mouth curved upwards, though humour had yet to arrive. "The duel, as well as his head." He paused, allowing this piece of news to sink in, noting with satisfaction both their jaws had fallen in tandem. "We also," he added, almost cheerfully, "have a new King."

"A what?" Geraint blurted, confused as Alyce by the speed of current events and his inability to keep up with them.

"A bastard son of King Maric's, who quite handily _happened _to be in the Arl's company _and_ a Grey Warden." Ser Ryan glared at Alyce, who shrunk slightly under his scrutiny. _Why is he looking at me as though I knew all along? _she thought wildly. Surely he didn't think it was information that she'd known and withheld from him? If he did, that was…well, it was…Anger appeared to wipe every word she'd had ready to throw at him because although she _wanted _to deny the accusation with a passion, all that emerged was…

"_What_? The God of Cheese is the King of Ferelden? _Andraste's burning bumpkiss…you're kidding me!_"

-oo-


	23. Challenge

A/N: …_aaaaaand _this chapter is the reason why the last one took so long. Darned nobles and their entourages, taking up valuable space on the bus…Also story rating changed slightly to allow Geraint to make a bit of a point to 'big' brother.

Thank you to all for being so patient!

-oo-

**Chapter 23 - Challenge**

Alyce's mind was awhirl…a whorl…? A whale…? She couldn't decide. It was certainly full of thoughts spinning far too fast to grasp in such stomach wrenching patterns across the inside of her brain she felt ill. Had Neria known her fellow Grey Warden had been a…well, sort of a prince? An unacknowledged one to be sure, but…the Landsmeet had recognised his claim to the line of Calenhad enough to stick the circular, gold, spiky thing on his head in the end…and…Loghain…_dead_…It seemed impossible, even more impossible than a Grey Warden nobody becoming King of Ferelden.

The only thing she could understand was that under the Warden King and a loosely united Bannorn, Ferelden could now focus on dealing with the Blight. Armies had been gathering from the north-west, from the underground city of Orzammar and in the east the Dalish Elven clans had been mustering. Neria had exercised all her treaties and now all that was needed were the human armies to get themselves organised. Alyce knew Irving would be moving his mages soon and if she wasn't with them…

She had to help Neria. She had promised herself she would; promised _Neria_. She had let Jowan down, she could not do the same to Neria, not when so much was at stake, but…This was _Highever_. Before the news about the Landsmeet and Loghain, she had had an argument constructed to present to the First Enchanter. Highever was where the legend of Flemeth had begun, her birthplace. It was here that the witch lived with Osen and the Lord Conobar. It was _here_ that the Witch had begun dabbling in the arcane arts, contracting an agreement with a demon to extend her life…And it was in Highever that Alyce hoped to find some answers to the questions her nightmares created. With the news from Denerim however…priorities had shifted and she _hated_ the fact that Ser Ryan was right. She _was_ doing this out of self-interest…just not _self_ self-interest…_Urgh, that doesn't make any sense…_

She _couldn't_ tell Ser Ryan about her nightmares and why they made her anxious, terrified. Her dreams of worm-like dragons crawling out of the earth, sundering the skies over Thedas with their battle cries and scorching the land with their poisonous flame…and of a blanket of death covering the world…was just…Nope. She would keep that one to herself. She wasn't suicidal. A mage having nightmares was one step away from a mage being possessed by a demon…Thoughts tying up her brain in knots and her attention gone wandering in the wilderness without her, Alyce did not see the tall shadow attach itself to her side until it spoke…"I'm impressed. Those were _strong_ words…"

Alyce let out a surprised squeak, falling against a nearby wall. She looked over at the shadowy figure, feeling her heart flip-flop uncomfortably in her chest as it struggled to find a normal beat. "Ohh," she croaked, "thank you for shaving a decade off my lifespan…"

As she forced her breathing to slow, she heard him chuckle. "For such a tall person, you squeak pretty high."

"You know," she added breathlessly. "I'm beginning to wonder whether you actually exist. You appear and disappear like a Will O' Wisp…" Shadows and mist, that's what he was. Here today, gone in a blink. How did he do it? And could he teach her, so that she could disappear whenever she needed a quick getaway from Templars…_or, maybe just the one, particular Templar…_

"Will O' Wisp?" A single, sculptured eyebrow angled sardonically above an azure eye; the only colour about him. Everything else was black, from his long black leather cloak to his black tunic and blackened armour. "Luring unwary travellers to their deaths…?" he added thoughtfully. His bluer than blue eyes sparkled at her. "I think I like that idea...though perhaps not unwary travellers in general, but _specific_, unwary travellers…"

"With teddy bears on their shields?" Alyce grimaced, referring to the ridiculously cute coat of arms belonging to the Arl of Amaranthine. By the smug look on his face she could tell he'd already done the luring and killing bit. His Lordship had been busy it seemed. She eyed the bottom of his cloak, uncaring that his gaze followed hers. Mud. Lots of it; as though he'd been passing through great swathes of the stuff in great haste. She wasn't too sure she was curious enough to ask.

"So…" he continued by her side. "You called him a 'donkey's arse'…" he said appreciatively. "Inventive."

Alyce threw him an annoyed look. Had he been spying on them? She and Ser Ryan's argument had been _fairly_ loud…but still, it was none of his business. "It's a term of endearment," she told him defensively.

"You call your Templar a donkey's arse quite frequently, then?" he enquired.

"He is _not _my Templar!" _Why does everyone keep saying that he is? _

"So it's not a term of endearment," he stated, with a sly look towards the agitated mage. Alyce halted abruptly. She needed to check on her patient, but he was really annoying her, turning only to come face glove with a waggling, black-leather-clad finger. "Naughty, naughty mage tells porky pies…" he sang at her.

Eyes flashing, Alyce stabbed her hips with angry fists. "I'm going to melt your earrings from your ears with a fireball, so help me, Aidan Cousland…"

"Andraste's burning brassiere, Aidan…" a woman's voice intervened from an open doorway up ahead. "I thought I heard your mocking voice. It's about time you returned. I was beginning to worry you'd met with some foul end…"

The man inclined his head to the speaker, chuckling. "Believe me mother, if I am to meet my end, you can bet it will be anything but _foul._"

"That's not funny." The smile slipped from Eleanor Cousland's face. In its place a well-practiced glare appeared, attempting to roast her son with it. Her expression in contrast was much friendlier when she turned next to Alyce. "Enchanter Amell…If you intend to hurl a fireball at my son, will you please ensure it reaches my husband as well?" Throwing another dark look at Aidan, she added, "Honestly, the men in my family are determined to turn every hair on my head white with anxiety."

"I take it the messenger has been?" Aidan enquired, slipping an arm around his mother's shoulders.

"Yes," she told them both. "And he's been jumpier than a cricket with a skipping rope." She threw a pleading look at Alyce over her shoulder. "I wish you would talk to him. If his wound opens up again…" she left the sentence unfinished, her eyes darkening with worry.

"Can you blame him, mother?" Aidan asked softly, the two of them pausing at the doorway to the room. "The events in Denerim have handed us a golden opportunity. We would be fools not to take advantage of Howe's distraction. He's just lost his greatest ally and the bulk of his troops are still in Denerim we…"

"Are the three of you talking about me _again_?" Alyce poked her head around the Teyrna and Aidan Cousland, giving the grey-haired man currently attempting to rise from his bed a critical look. He winced as he pushed himself painfully to his feet, causing the Teyrna to hurry into the room to his side.

"Bryce, for the Maker's sake…you don't have to do this. Please try and rest…!" she protested, to no avail.

"My ears have been burning too painfully for rest," the target of the Teyrna's scold chuckled good-naturedly. He held up a hasty hand towards Alyce. "No, no, I'm fine," he told her. "I don't need any healing I thank you. Muscles are just so damned stiff, lying in bed all day." He eyed his son's attire with mild amusement. "Well pup, playing pirate again I see. And Aidan is right, love," he told his wife gently. "With these new developments in Denerim we can no longer afford to hold back. The Castle must be reclaimed and Ferelden shown that the Cousland line has not failed."

"But can we trust these Grey Wardens?" Eleanor Cousland asked worriedly. "And this boy they found…Maric's son? I had heard rumours but, what is he like? Can he be trusted as well?"

"Well, he can't be any worse than Cailan…" Aidan snorted, earning him a dual look of disapproval from his parents. "What?" he gave them all a wide-eyed, innocent stare which fooled no one. "Cailan was a skirt-chasing glory-hound. I should know. I am one." Rolling his eyes, he added. "Look, I don't blame the man. He _was_ married to a walking lump of ice…"

The Teyrna threw her hands up in despair. "I give up," she announced. "I officially wash my hands of you, Aidan."

"Come now Eleanor," the Teyrn said in his most diplomatic voice. "I wouldn't have sent my first-born to fight at Ostagar if I didn't believe in either the Grey Wardens or their concern about the darkspawn."

"And the new king?" the Teyrna prompted, the two of them steering automatically away from the subject of _Ostagar._

"We shall just have to see," he told her simply. "But we can't allow this opportunity to pass us by." At his wife's sigh of dismay, he added, "Given the circumstances, it would be foolish not to act; and act quickly. Pup…" Giving his wife's shoulders a quick, reassuring squeeze, he took a step forward. "Send word out to the men. Tonight we prepare for battle. At dawn, we take back what is _ours_."

-oo-

_A donkey's arse…_Geraint snickered under his breath, drawing his brother's already irritated attention back to him. _Really…a donkey's ARS…_

"You can stop laughing now," Ser Ryan growled at him. He looked towards the summer cottage, but there was still no sign of Amell. She had stormed off in a rage, muttering about checking on the Teyrn. He knew he too should pay his respects to Teyrn Cousland, but he didn't think it wise to do it in the company of Amell. Not while she was still angry at him…angry enough to fling the toolshed incident back at him. She had regretted it immediately but it had been said. She had been upset at him for more than his insistence on leaving Highever and he couldn't blame her. He thought he had earned her trust and even her friendship, but his lack of foresight and selfishness had destroyed all of that. He didn't really know how to win her trust back again, short of staying in Highever, but he could not risk her becoming embroiled in local politics. She was a _mage…_The Chantry was going to be watching her a lot more closely if she started becoming as visible as Neria Surana. Grey Warden or not, the Grand Cleric did not appreciate mages becoming prominentor _popular_.

Ser Ryan was keen to return Amell to the relative safety of the Tower. She had a habit of putting herself in harm's way…not that he wasn't contributing to that as well…But…_dammit, it's bad enough she's going to fight the Blight without me_…

"And you really did lock her up?" Geraint continued, cutting remorselessly into Ryan's anxious thoughts. "Without any means to _defend_ herself? Not particularly gallant of you, brother…"

Bent over his pack, Ser Ryan's eyes flashed in anger, but he manfully resisted being goaded by his baby brother.

"Wow…_locking_ her up…" Geraint mused loudly. "That's also kind of, you know…Kind of kinky. They teach you that at Templar school, or is that the product of the old 'no sex' rule? No snogging; no heavy petting or…hey, it just occurred to me: what about self-serv…"

"_Shut up _Geraint.

"Well, it's not _healthy…_" Geraint continued, immune to that tone of voice. "…bottling it all up. You know what they say about not releasing the pressure valve on the old boiler, Ry…you just never know when the pressure's going to build up enough for a great big explos…"

Ser Ryan hurled his pack onto the floor, spinning around and marching up to his brother. Fists clenched, he glared nose to…chin…the height difference between older and younger brother almost making the gesture comical, except Ser Ryan was too angry to complete the picture. "You…" he began angrily. "You are _right_," he gritted. "I _failed_ her. I was supposed to protect her, not put her in harm's way. But I also cannot allow Amell to become involved in this…war."

"This is _our_ home too, Ry," Geraint reminded him quietly.

"And if the Blight is not stopped, there won't _be _a home to fight for!" Ryan snapped.

"I get it, I _get _it," Geraint stepped back, folding his arms across his chest mulishly. "But you're not looking at it from Alyce's point of view…"

"_Enchanter Amell._"

"_You_ haven't been the one healing everyone," Geraint informed him. "You haven't been the one listening to their tales of woe about how Rendon Howe's men have burned down their houses, slaughtered their livestock or tortured their family for supporting the Couslands. We _know _the Blight is a threat. We have eyes; we can see it on the horizon, but for most Highevers, the loss of home, family members, livelihoods…that's a bit more immediate. Not all of us have the luxury of setting aside domestic issues for the larger picture, Ry. Some of us want our homes back first before we can start thinking about defending them against the darkspawn."

Geraint exhaled a long breath. "Mother's been struggling with father this last year. Morwenna's tried to help as much as she can, but with two little ones of her own and no word on Byron…There's not a lot of work for a blacksmith who won't sell his soul to a bunch of traitors…my fault, I know…" He ran a hand restlessly through his hair. "Howe brought his own people up here, shut down most of the businesses. Those that held out got…raided. Old Geoffrey was one of them. Howe's men beat him up, then took him away to Maker knows where, along with some others." Geraint gave a twisted, sad smile. "Setting an _example_, they told us."

"Maker's blood, Geraint, I'm sorry," Ser Ryan said, horrified at the thought of anyone being able to take down Geoffrey the Smith, or anyone wanting to harm the man. Geraint had been apprenticed to the man from the age of twelve, their mother rejoicing in having one out of three sons that showed a preference for making swords, rather than wielding them. With a father like theirs, Geoffrey had stepped in as father figure to Geraint…"I didn't know…"

"Well of course you didn't," Geraint snapped with uncharacteristically angry vigour. "You weren't here to see it all. We _were_. Alyce might not have been either, but at least she _understands_. With a mage on our side, we stand a better chance against Howe's men than if we charged waving our hoes and scythes at them. Most of our best soldiers got taken to Ostagar. Most of them haven't returned. You can't imagine the relief we all felt when we found out the Teyrn had survived. Andraste's armpits, Ry…! Considering how many died the night the Couslands were attacked…Soon as we heard, well," he shrugged. "We had reason to hope again, is all."

Silence hung heavily between the two men as the last echoes of Geraint's impassioned words faded. It seemed there was little Ser Ryan could say. He had failed his family. He had failed Alyce and he was about to let everyone else down.

"Geraint…I don't…"

"Anyway," Geraint spoke over him, an aggressive edge to his voice. "It's good you're going." Adding a belligerent shrug, Geraint stared at Ryan, the challenge clear in his hazel eyes. "That way you can't interfere between me and Alyce, right?"

-oo-


	24. The Castle

A/N: Yay. Long weekend…

-oo-

**Chapter 24 – The Castle**

The early morning mist formed tiny droplets on her skin, sticking to the fine hairs on her arms in an icy layer. Neria's gift of the ornate mage robette…robelet…thing might have been designed by a small, florid little Tevinter man with a very big moustache in the middle of the hottest summer in Thedas to enhance and amplify magic, but it did absolutely nothing to help Alyce keep warm in the chilly, wee small hours of a Ferelden autumn morning. Her fingerless gloves did not help matters, the tips of her fingers having lost all feeling hours ago, the cold spreading to her knuckles and the bones of her hands. Her wrists ached. So did her knees, hunched for so long in this cramped stance, with her ears stinging in the cold. She hugged herself, tucking in her chin to try and conserve heat, but it was a useless exercise. She shivered…so cold was she that she didn't even startle when a heavy cloak was thrown over her head. Enclosed in sudden warmth she sighed, inhaling the scent of warm leather, cinnamon and…apple.

"Don't you mages have a spell for keeping yourselves warm?" Aidan Cousland cocked an eyebrow at her, hunkering down behind the wall beside her.

"Have you ever seen a proper set of mage robes?" she asked. "They're made of heavy wool, brocade…and lots of it. We don't need spells of warmth." _Normally._

"I take it you left yours at the Tower then?" Aidan asked dryly, casting a sidelong look towards her that took in the muddy heels of her boots, her chilly blue knees and her red-tipped ears. "Not…that I'm unappreciative that you have…" he added, along with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

"Thank you for the cloak," Alyce ignored the wiggle, drawing the cloak more tightly around her. "But if _you_ catch your death, I refuse to be held responsible."

Aidan laughed softly again. "If I catch my death today, you can bet my mother will _kill _me personally." He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes taking in the faint glow on the horizon. Face set into grim stone, his gaze raked the surrounding countryside. They could not be seen, hidden by the greenery and the relative darkness, but he knew where each and every man of his was lying in wait. Alyce was impressed. For someone so young – barely twenty-five – he was quite an accomplished commander. On the other hand, there were few young men who would have been given the opportunity to hone their natural skills at warfare the way Aidan Cousland had; rallying a mere half a dozen guardsmen to break through Howe's lines when the castle was attacked to take his parents to safety; afterwards gathering his own tiny army together and continuing to harry the Amaranthine interlopers…

"We move soon…" he whispered with a small nod, frowning at her suddenly. "I meant to ask; why do you do that?"

"Huh? Do what?" she asked, puzzled by the question. As far as she knew she had not done anything.

He mimicked her, pressing two gloved fingers to his lips, then bringing them to his collar bone. Alyce's forehead wrinkled, her hand automatically going to the leather thong and parcel of ashes she still carried around her neck. She hadn't even realised she was doing that little gesture. "What's in there?" he asked. "A keepsake from a former lover, a lock of hair stolen from an unrequited love, or is that too personal a question?"

"If I said it was too personal, would you still insist on an answer?" she asked.

"Of course," he said simply.

Her half-frozen fingers curling around the tiny leather pocket, Alyce cast her gaze over the wide expanse of field towards the castle ahead. Two flambeaux were visible through the rising fog, illuminating the approach to the castle itself. The weather was what Cousland was waiting for – for the thick morning fog to form, to mask their movement over the open field. Once the mist was thick enough, he would give the signal to move…"Nothing so interesting," she told him, referring to his cheeky mention of loves and lovers. "They're ashes," she added softly, noting the slight rise of his eyebrows again. "A mabari saved my life at Ostagar," she said. "I was lost, surrounded by darkspawn and all out of magic. It charged the darkspawn, tore them to shreds and led me to safety. Unfortunately," her hand tightened around the leather pouch. "It was poisoned by darkspawn blood and died." She gave a sad, humourless huff of laughter. "I didn't even know its name…but I've been carrying around its ashes ever since."

"It stayed with you?" he asked, sounding impressed. "That's…surprising." Seeing her look of puzzlement increase, he added. "Mabari are smart. They don't just imprint on anyone; and they don't just…_attach _themselves to anyone either," he told her then asked, "What did he look like?"

Alyce laughed more loudly, clapping a hasty hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. "Sorry," she whispered. "He was brown…" she told him, adding in response to his look of dismay. "Don't all mabari look alike?"

He shook his head at her in disappointment. "A lone, masterless mabari did you honour by spending his last hours with you and you can't find it in yourself to return that honour? 'All mabaris look alike…' _honestly."_ He heaved a great sigh. "If you must know, no two mabari look _alike_," he informed her. "They are born with distinctive markings on their muzzles and forelegs, sometimes on their coats. Admittedly sometimes these markings are not always evident to the untrained eye but they are recorded by breeders; to keep a track of lines and trace owners…if needed, and they are not all _brown._"

"I'm sorry," she told him, grimacing, "I don't remember…" _Nor would I have noticed…_But she wished now that she had. He rolled her eyes at her, muttering _look alike…_darkly under his breath. He scanned the countryside again, looking slightly worried at the amount of light the sun was beginning to throw upon the land. Suddenly, he drew his dagger, whirling around. Metal met metal, a single spark flashing as the two blades connected mid-air. Startled, Alyce lost her balance, falling backwards against the stone wall. She followed the length of the longsword blade to the person wielding it, her eyes going wide in recognition. However it was not she, but Aidan Cousland who spoke.

"Ser…Ryan, isn't it?" Aidan asked as the two men – in silent agreement – disengaged their respective weapons. "I thought you were on your way to Lake Calenhad." Aidan's eyes flicked briefly to Alyce, questioning. She had been the one who had told him the Templar had decided not to stay. Yet, the man was here, fully armed, fully armoured and - Aidan was not unobservant when it came to sword skills - if Ser Ryan's reflexes were anything to go by…fully welcome to stay as long as he liked. Odd though that the man had changed his mind so close to battle…

Ser Ryan met Aidan Cousland's gaze squarely. "I was given to understand there might be mages within the Arl's ranks," he stated calmly. "If my Templar abilities could be of service…As well as…The Chantry might also be interested in whether there are mages operating from outside the Ferelden Circle of Magi. If so, then it is my duty as a representative of the Order to investigate."

"Well, for what_ever_ reason…" Aidan shrugged, noting that the Templar deliberately did not look at his mage, "duty or…" He cast a speculative look towards Alyce, "_interest…_You wield your sword in battle as you just have against me and our chances of success increase."

"I thank you, Your Lordship."

"Now," Aidan began, thoughts of where he could best position someone with a quick blade firing his brain when he was interrupted by a soft voice beside him.

"Yay. Yippee."

Two sets of eyes turned to the mage crouching by the wall. She looked surprised by their unexpected attention.

"Oh," she said, her cheeks darkening. "Did I just say that out loud? Oops. I didn't mean to."

"Riiiiiight…" Aidan brought the subject back to the matter at hand. The fog had reached just the right opacity to give them enough cover, the sun gaining the perfect angle for enough glare to make any movement almost undetectable from the ramparts. "Now, Ser Ryan," he began again, "given that your skills…"

"Yay. Yippee…"

Aidan sighed. He rolled his eyes at Ser Ryan, "Just stay by your mage, okay?"

-oo-

_Stay by your mage…_Ser Ryan skidded behind a pitted wall just in time to avoid the volley of arrows, spitting tiny chunks of masonry as they gouged into the wall at neck and head height. He'd had a brief glimpse of a long pale leg taking a dive behind a mound of rubble before he'd needed to find cover. The ground and walls rumbled in another explosion. Heated air and dust rushed past, followed by the inevitable screaming and shouting. _Stay by your mage? _It was easier said than done. _And why does everyone refer to her as 'my' mage?_

"Ser Ryan!"

Lowering himself into a half-crouch, Ser Ryan looked quickly around the wall before charging into the cloud of dust towards the voice, the sound of arrow heads clanging into the stone after him. He dived behind Alyce's pile of rubble, landing heavily into a half-roll that had him ending up on his knees beside her.

"A fireball Amell?" he glanced at her. "We're trying to recapture the castle I thought, not demolish it."

"Ha, ha, Ser Duellist-Ryan," she made a face at him. "That wasn't me. They have a mage up there."

"A mage…" He peered through the dust and smoke, just as he felt the familiar fizz along his skin of an elemental spell being conjured. He _concentrated_ on the area up ahead…_As there is but one world, one life, one death…_he began to recite to himself, preparing to drain the mage of mana and follow up with a Holy Smite. _There is but one god, and He is our Maker…_sharp, intense pain exploded from the back of his head, shooting towards his temples. Ser Ryan winced, betrayed into a startled cry.

"Ser Ryan…Holy Smite please…" Alyce sang beside him when nothing happened. When he tried again however, the pain was even more intense.

"Andraste's cherry cupcakes!" Alyce exclaimed. "They've got a bloody blood mage!" She shot a spear of lightning towards the balcony, which bounced harmlessly off the balustrading. "Did you see that?" she demanded. "He's stabbing himself like a damned pincushion. Ser Ryan; that Holy Smite would be really…" She had turned to him, concern flooding her eyes when she saw how much he was struggling. "Are you alright?" she asked. "You're kind of green…"

"Fireball!" Ser Ryan shouted – Alyce conjured a wall of ice just in time – the fireball slamming into it, showering them both in hot water.

"Maker take them…!" Ser Ryan hissed, adding a few un-Templar-like curses of his own invention that had Alyce colouring in shock.

"Wow," she said, impressed. "I'm going to have to remember some of those. Especially the one about the pikestaff up the…I don't even think I can _pronounce _it…" She paused to cast a distracting stinging swarm up at the mage, hoping for a break in his barrier, then touched Ser Ryan's arm. "We're not going to be able to get close enough at this rate," she told him, worried. "What's wrong?"

"Pain in my head whenever I try to…" _Damn it, I don't care…!_ This time the pain was so agonising it felt as though his eyeballs were being force-ejected from his skull. When the black spots had ceased dancing before what was left of his eyes, he turned to the side, missing his boots just in time with his spray of vomit. He turned back to find Amell staring agog at him. He tried to apologise, hands clenching around the hilts of his longsword and cutlass, his stomach still churning. He rose for another charge, finding Amell's hand on his arm. The concern in her eyes had increased.

"I don't think you should do that again," she told him.

"I don't think we have a choice," he retorted hoarsely, annoyed at this newly developed hiccup in being able to use his Templar abilities. Alyce did not have the opportunity to respond; a black streak bounded between them, poised briefly on the small hill of collapsed stone before turning to yell at them.

"What are the two of you doing? Forward!" Springing into the air, Aidan Cousland zigzagged up the walkway. Hurling himself at the wall, he used his momentum to literally bounce from brick to brick, somersaulting over the balustrades, blades blurring silver light. They made short work of the mage and two archers. Alyce turned to speak to Ser Ryan, only to find an empty space; he'd already vaulted over the rubble to join Cousland on the balcony, the two men disappearing inside the upper level of this side of the castle. The sound of people dying very rapidly followed.

Numb but impressed by the speed and strength of both warriors, Alyce picked herself off the debris-strewn floor and continued on. _I think I'm going to have to introduce Neria to Lord Aidan as well…_she thought…_and maybe update her on a few statistics about 'Divine Ryan'…_

-oo-

She picked her way around the ruins of the room. Alyce could see where some repairs had been made by Howe's men following the first attack; a patchwork of really bad stonework and plastering. There were leaks in the Archivist's library causing water damage to some elderly and probably valuable works of the written word. Alyce scowled at the soggy mess. Most of what she had found was unreadable, but she placed it on the table anyway. There were few places in Cousland Castle that had not been vandalised in some way by Howe's not-so-diligent soldiers. The tiny chapel in the courtyard was the only place that appeared to have escaped unharmed.

The worst discovery had been the 'pit of the dead'; a large cellar that had been a convenient dumping ground for the dead…servants, soldiers…there had been smaller bodies that had been thrown in there as well; squires and page boys. One of them, Mother Mallol had informed her had likely been the Teyrn's young grandson. It was hard to tell after all this time however, so one could only guess…It added more meaning to the castle being recovered…

As volunteers began to clear the debris and the dead, another group led by Lord Aidan set about clearing out the underground tunnels that ran underneath the castle. In the meantime, Alyce spent hours healing the injured and handing out poultices to those who could more or less look after themselves. A pyre was being built downwind in the fields which would need her attention (and an intense fire spell) later. For now, she picked through the remains of the Cousland's library, feeling drained and anxious. The senior Couslands were expected at the castle in the evening, but already the Cousland banner was flying from the gatehouse towers. Apart from healing, there seemed little else that she could do, except wait.

Alyce leant against the table, feeling anti-climactic. There were few amongst those available at the castle who could tell her where to look for records that might tell her where Aunt Mildred lived. There were plenty of books about Fereldan and Thedan history, The Chant of Light and about the Couslands themselves, but no official lists of residents in the area for Aunt Mildred's whereabouts. Nor was there anything she could easily find going back before Haelia Cousland; technically the first Teyrna. Alyce imagined anything about Lord Conobar Elstan would be in a safer place than in a leaky library…

As for Ser Ryan, he had accompanied Aidan Cousland to the tunnels; his lordship keen to avail himself of the older man's talent with sharp pointy things. The headache brought on by his using Templar techniques caused her more concern than she would have liked to admit to him. She hoped it was only a temporary thing, while he was still recovering from his injury. She hoped it wasn't permanent and she hoped that the headaches were not due to her failing as a healer.

She wished Wynne or Petra were here…

Wynne…Alyce rubbed tiredly at her temples, realising belatedly there was blood still smeared on her hands. For such an elderly old bird, the Senior Enchanter certainly seemed to be able to get around without too much trouble. Most women her age barely made it out from under their crocheted wraps and away from their comfy fireplaces. Wynne was still out there, fighting darkspawn…ridding the highways of bandits…re-locating lost royal heirs…It was indeed…odd. Alyce allowed herself the indulgence of a sceptical laugh. If she didn't know better, the Senior Enchanter was on her way to Flemeth status. People were going to start thinking the woman had made a deal with a Fade denizen in order to remain robust and active…but that was just the stupid part of her brain thinking too hard…She wondered how they all were.

"Ah, there you are…" Ser Ryan strode through the partially collapsed doorway of the library, stepping over a fallen beam towards Alyce and her pile of salvaged books. He paused to pick up a copy of The Chant of Light from the damp floor, folding the pages over carefully before returning it to a shelf that was out of the way of the gaps in the roof.

"Tunnels all cleared out?" Alyce asked, giving his tired face a healer's scrutiny. His eyes were slightly blood-shot and rimmed in red. He appeared to be blinking more than usual. He looked like someone in pain.

"We found rats," he said conversationally. "Rather big ones."

"Rats of unusual size, huh?" Alyce pushed herself away from the desk. "Whatever they're eating under the castle must have been good for them."

Ser Ryan cringed. The look on his face told her far too much about possible…_rat food._ Not all victims of Howe's megalomania had been taken to Denerim it seemed. He paused for the shortest time before speaking again. "Amell, we have to leave soon. If not soon, then immediately. We've been here almost a week. We really cannot afford to tarry any longer."

"I know…" Alyce sighed. She looked around the ruined room; at the half-burned scrolls and books, overturned shelving and puddles of muddy water. "I just…it would be nice to know she's out there somewhere and that she's alright…"

"I'm sorry," Ser Ryan said, taking another step forward. "It is unfair. I was given the opportunity to see my family, but you have not."

Alyce shrugged. "She was elderly when I left," she told him. "For all I know she might not be living still…" At her bleak expression he took another step towards her, his hand extended.

"Alyce…"

"Ho! There the two of you are!" Both mage and Templar jumped, Alyce swinging her head around Ser Ryan's shoulder to scowl at the new arrival. Aidan Cousland halted just inside the doorway of the library, grimacing in distaste. "Can not the two of you enjoy a romantic tryst in a more comfortable location?" he asked, hopping lightly over the fallen beam. "Maker's breath, it smells in here. Even worse than when old cabbage-breath Aldous was resident…" He made a show of looking around at the damage. "Actually, you know I think this might be an improvement…It was always a bit stuffy in here. Now there's actually _airflow…_"

Alyce frowned at young Cousland. Hands planted firmly on her hips, she told him. "We were _not _trysting! And your blatant disregard for the written word is, quite frankly…blatant!"

Aidan's eyes twinkled at her. "Eloquent as usual," he said. "Are you sure you won't marry me?" he asked, sliding a sly look towards Ser Ryan. The Templar appeared statue-like and devoid of expression except that of perfect serenity, as usual. "If not, I'd be quite happy to discuss an _arrangement _that would be mutually beneficial for the both of us."

"You need a mage in attendance?" Alyce asked. "Maybe…later? We have a Blight to help defeat."

Ser Ryan lifted his eyes heavenward. "He means as his mistress," he told Alyce quietly.

"Oh," she said. "In that case, go soak your head, um…My Lord. We have a Blight to help defeat."

"And on _that _note," Aidan said cheerfully, belying his words, "allow me to confess my heart quite thoroughly broken…which leads me to your Blight obsession."

"I am not obsessed…!"

"We've received information that your Grey Wardens are on the move," he told them, blue eyes sparking in excitement.

"They're ready to face the horde?" Alyce asked, wide-eyed with worry. And she wasn't with them…! She should be with them…!

"So it seems," Aidan cocked his head to the side. "It seems the field of battle has been set. Redcliffe. That's where the horde has been spotted moving towards."

_Redcliffe…_Alyce baulked. If Neria and her armies had started to Redcliffe already, they would either be there already, or well on their way to arriving there. This was _not_ good.

"But Redcliffe…?" Ser Ryan frowned. "Why there, I wonder? Previous information had the horde headed north east…"

Aidan shrugged. "Other information has the Ferelden Grey Wardens travelling with an Orlesian representative of the Order. He's the one who suggested the horde would be heading there."

"Redcliffe is closer to the Orlesian border than Denerim or Amaranthine…" Alyce murmured. Ser Ryan echoed her frown, wondering where Amell had been going with this line of thought. "Neria said – in Ostagar, before the battle – that the King had sent a request to the Orlesians for aid against the Blight. The Ferelden Grey Wardens were waiting for a contingent from Val Royeux as well…I remember thinking it was odd at the time." As she had simply been voicing her own thoughts, she looked up, surprised to find both men looking at her curiously.

"What?" she threw her hands wide. "I merely wondered why the Grey Wardens, with all their _urgency _to defeat the Blight would send for reinforcements from someplace as far as Val Royeux, when they could have requested help from some place closer, like the Free Marches…A two and a half week journey, versus a week-long trip across the Waking Sea? The Free Marches are hardly a _united _place, but surely the Wardens must have had some kind of communication system set up with the Order there, that's all."

"Ooh, a juicy conspiracy theory!" Aidan exclaimed in glee. "Tell me more, Oh Prophetess of Truth!"

Alyce made a face at him. "Not a conspiracy theory," she sighed. "I just thought if anything was going to light a great big, exploding bonfire under the General's Orlais-paranoid butt-cheeks, it'd be anything to do with our former occupiers." She tossed off another shrug. "Loghain already had a hornet in his bonnet about the Grey Wardens, I just don't _get _why they would have made things worse by agreeing to ask their Orlesian members to join them."

A long speculative silence stretched out between the three, broken only by a steady drip of water in the far corner.

"Regardless," Ser Ryan felt it his duty to break the uncomfortable quiet. He looked towards Alyce. "The two of us must now head to Redcliffe, while there still is a Redcliffe to head to."

-oo-


	25. To the Manor Born

-oo-

**Chapter 25 – To the Manor Born**

They had hoped to enter the castle quietly, without fuss or fanfare, but news of Cousland Castle being once more reclaimed spread like a summer wildfire. By the time Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had arrived at the gates to Highever village, a large crowd had gathered to line the main street, torches burning and faces alight, all eager to be amongst the first to welcome their beloved Teyrn and Teyrna back to their home. Touched by this gesture, Bryce Cousland alighted from the un-Teyrn-like farm cart, determined to make the last couple of hundred metres through the village to the castle itself on foot. The approach, which should have taken fifteen minutes, ended up taking well over an hour as the couple stopped frequently to speak to as many as they could. Hands were shaken, shoulders were clasped, tears shed. By the time the Cousland party had passed under the portcullis of the main gates to the castle, the Teyrn was leaning heavily on his son's arm, exhausted, but no less determined to show the people of Highever that there was still fight left in the old boy.

Once in the main courtyard, they paused, the Teyrn looking up at the Cousland family standard with glistening eyes. The remains of his guardsmen – those who had been left behind as a token force to support his son and had managed to survive Howe's onslaught – lined the short avenue to the ivy-covered stone porch of the entry, their applause and cheers as enthusiastic and loud as the villagers' had been. From the shadows, Alyce winked at Aidan Cousland as he stood on his father's right before sending a spell of rejuvenation at the Teyrn. Bryce Cousland looked surprised very briefly, his bright eyes scanning the crowd for the source of his sudden burst of energy. His smile widened and he straightened. Standing tall and proud, he saluted his men then walked, unaided under the banner of his family into his home.

Highever had been returned to its rightful owners.

-oo-

"Weeeell…perhaps not _rightful, _exactly_…_possession being nine-tenths and all of that…" Aidan Cousland swung a black-clad leg idly as he perched on the edge of the long table, picking through the loose pile of books Alyce had put aside for repair. "The first Cousland was originally a mere Captain of the Guard…" he continued, grimacing at the title of a soggy tome before replacing it onto the pile. "Well, someone had to I suppose, seeing as the previous lord died childless…Surely you don't intend to keep _this_?" he said suddenly, holding up a battered, dog-eared copy of _The Chant of Light_. Alyce made a face at it, plucking it from Aidan's hand and tossing it unceremoniously over her shoulder. It landed in a pool of dried mud.

"_I _didn't put that there," she told him haughtily. "Ser Ryan must have…blech. Who needs a copy of _The Chant of Light _anyway? Aren't all good Andrastians supposed to know it all by heart? So, anyway," she brought the subject back around to something more interesting, "the late lord I take it, was Conobar?" she asked.

"Uh-huh." Aidan arranged himself a little more comfortably on the table, sliding closer to where she sat. "Some say poisoned by his wife, _Flemeth_, others _claim_ she pierced him through his heart with his own dagger, while he made love to her. I prefer the latter claim. If I was Conobar, I would have wanted to end my life enjoying myself in the arms of a beautiful woman."

"Who's to say he was actually enjoying himself?" Alyce snorted sceptically. "Or that she was beautiful? She could have looked like a squashed barrel of rotten apples, for all we know…And stop looking down my robes."

"Well, if you _insist _on leaning over like that, I'm going to enjoy the view," he told her simply.

"Would you like to enjoy being hit by lightning as well?" she asked him, mimicking his easy-going tone.

He grinned appreciatively at her. "Kinky. I like the way you think." It earned him a disgusted shake of her head. "What?" he added, trying and failing to look innocent of all charges.

"I don't understand how parents like yours could have had someone like you," she told him with a twist of her mouth.

"You haven't met my brother Fergus…" he began, the smile slipping abruptly from his face. He looked down at the palms of his hands, calloused from many hours wielding a sword, his skin a tracery of old scars, new cuts and bruises. The cheerful light from his blue eyes faded. "Wherever he is, the bastard had better be safe…" he said softly. "I wish I could have…" Alyce looked up at him, the loss of his youth stripped cruelly from him reflected in his expression. She placed her hand in his; his chilly fingers curling around her own. "I wish I could have saved them," he added, for once sounding young and unsure. "My brother's wife and my nephew…" He looked up, his gaze turned inwards to an image only he could see. "Everything I've done, I've done for them," he said softly. "For Fergus. I owed him that." His hands tightened around hers. "I was in charge of the castle," he told her. "I was supposed to keep them safe while my father and Fergus were in Ostagar…" He gave a self-mocking bark of humourless laughter. "My first command turned out to be the biggest failure of my _life…_"

"But…" Alyce frowned in confusion. "Your father wasn't in Ostagar…" Whom he had _saved_, she wanted to remind him; along with his mother and enough Highever soldiers to make it count.

"No."

He gave himself a visible shake, attempting she supposed, to throw off the cloud of melancholy that had descended upon him. "Father he…ended up having to change his original travel plans because the Arl's men were _delayed_. He sent Fergus with the bulk of our troops ahead of him, intending to leave with Arl Howe and the Amaranthine troops the following morning, except…Well," he drew a deep breath, collecting his thoughts and the tatters of his confidence together, "you know the rest."

Alyce nodded. She leant her head against his side. "What's gone wrong with this country?" she asked. "It really seems like since King Cailan died everything's gone mad…"

"Well, that's because a complete nutter put himself in charge, didn't he?" Aidan reminded her; a semblance of his normal cheer beginning to return to his voice. "To make things worse, he allied himself with Arl Completely Barking, setting aside Queen Butter Wouldn't Melt in Her Mouth for Banns The Alienage Is My Private Brothel and I'll Just Desert My People In Lothering Because I _Can_…the bunch of lickspittle shi…" he caught her expression in time to modify his flow of words slightly, "…iver me timbers…"

"Mm." Alyce watched him a minute longer as he studiously regarded the largest hole in the library's roof, the corners of his mouth turning down sadly. After a while she sighed. _Well, okay then…_"Would it help cheer you up if I let you look down my robes?" she asked solicitously. He turned a sunny smile on her.

"Oh yes!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, adding a sample leer.

"Look down whose robes?" A new, deep voice asked as he entered the library.

"Uh-oh, don't look now," Aidan leant down to whisper conspiratorially at Alyce, "but I believe your Moral Guardian has just arrived." He noted the slight figure behind the Templar and sprang to his feet, arms held out wide in welcome. "Along with my favouritest Revered Mother in the whole of Ferelden…!"

Only Aidan Cousland could have gotten away with attacking a senior member of the Chantry with a bear hug. When he released her, the Revered Mother swatted at him in a token effort of chastisement. "My Lord," Mother Mallol forced herself to say in a scolding voice. "I don't see how I could possibly be your favourite when I might only see you attending chapel but twice a year. If I followed your mother's advice, I should come chasing after you with a stiff broom to get you to attend service."

"Ah, it's because you _don't_ come after me with your broom that I love you so much," Aidan informed her unrepentantly. "Anyway, to what do I owe this great and much-anticipated visit?"

The Revered Mother snorted at Aidan Cousland's use of the word 'anticipated' in relation to anything to do with religious devotion (or a lack of it, in her opinion), turning her attention to Alyce. "Ser Ryan mentioned to me that you have family in the area?" she said. Alyce nodded, unwilling to speak. Ser Ryan was _smiling _at her as though he knew something she didn't. Apart from the fact that it was quite disconcerting, the tone of the Revered Mother's voice put her on edge. "_Amell…_" Mother Mallol cocked her head to the side, like a tiny canary about to break into song. "I had wondered whether you were related at all to Mistress Amell. It's not a particularly common name, so I'm given to understand."

"M…Mo…" Alyce began, her tongue turning inexplicably numb in her mouth. "M-m-my aunt…" she managed to squeeze the words through her lips. "Mildred…?"

"Oh yes, that's the one," Mother Mallol told her. She looked up adoringly at the Templar by her side. "Ser Ryan mentioned it to me in the hope she might reside within our parish. As it happens, she does."

"Wait a moment…" Aidan chimed in, smacking his forehead in sudden realisation. "Maker's blood! You're _that _Amell?"

Alyce's eyes slid from the Revered Mother to Aidan Cousland. "What…" she began. "What do you mean 'that Amell'?" she asked cautiously.

"The old fruitbat that used to chase us out of the chestnut grove?" Aidan blurted without a second thought. "Damned bird almost brained me once with an unripe melon for having a go at stealing her…uhh…" he appeared to notice Alyce for the first time, even though she had been keeping him company for the last half hour. He also noticed her expression…and the sparks of lightning she had threatened him with earlier crackling around her form. "Well," he said in a placating voice. "What I meant to say is what a fine, upstanding citizen of this wonderful Teyrnir she is and how loved and respected and you don't believe a single word I'm saying do you please don't do anything unnatural to me, Enchanter Amell…"

Alyce rolled her eyes at Aidan Cousland's pathetic attempt at a little boy's pleading voice. She was completely immune to puppy dog eyes, and protruding lower lips. Pawing at the air and whimpering only made her more resolute.

"No, Lord Aidan," she assured him. "Not anything…unnatural. In fact, I think I might have a _better_ use for you…"

-oo-

The laneway was twisty and circuitous, lined with darkened trees and silent underbrush. The moon was half-full overhead, but effectively excluded by the overhanging canopy of thick branches. Between the three of them they had one torch; carried aloft by Alyce. Both Aidan and Ser Ryan kept their weapons drawn, alert for any residual resistance from Howe's men…not that Lord Aidan's persistent conversation showed any concern on his part…"You know," he tossed over his shoulder as he navigated deftly around a puddle. "When you said 'a better use' I was hoping you meant no clothes, a jar of honey and an amiable daschund…not as tour guide for a trip down Memory Lane…"

Occupied in threatening the young lord with random electrocution, Alyce missed the hint of the puddle and splashed into it, sinking to her ankles and soaking her knees with frigid mud. She thought she should have learned her lesson by now and borrowed someone's cloak or a shawl or sewn a rug around herself against the night temperatures, but again she found herself out and about with nothing to protect her from the cold except a rather sheer layer of silk brocade and silverite which, by the way, helpfully iced up and _squeaked _as she walked. If there were any of Howe's men about, lying in wait for hapless stray travellers, all they had to do was home in on the noise they were making.

This close to Castle Cousland, the young Lord didn't feel too much of a threat, even if he did tend to twirl his long-bladed dagger in the air frequently, tossing it casually into the air and catching it…toss, catch, toss, catch…_throw…_It thudded into the trunk of a nearby tree. Ser Ryan immediately stepped in front of Alyce, his longsword held defensively across his body, the cutlass in his right hand covering the mage.

With an apologetic grin, Aidan Cousland retrieved his dagger from the tree. "Sorry," he said. "Thought I saw a squirrel…"

"You were going to spear a _defenceless_ squirrel with your dagger?" Alyce demanded around Ser Ryan's shoulder, horrified at the thought.

"No, no, no," Aidan denied, holding up his hands in surrender. "I was going for its nut, honest!" His eyes gleamed with mischief as he regarded Templar and Mage. Tossing his dagger back up into the air, it caught a moonbeam as it spun, flashing pale blue light into the darkness. With a flick of a wrist, he snatched it out of the air and re-sheathed it into the metal scabbard at his side. "Ooh, I think we turn down here…" he added cheerfully.

Alyce scowled after him. She glanced up at Ser Ryan, but his expression was neutral as always, even if his eyes narrowed at Lord Aidan's departing back. Pushing past the Templar she muttered, "Inbred nobles…insane, the bunch of them…"

"I heard that!" Aidan called from up ahead.

The three of them followed what was once a well-trodden, grassy side path, now returned to forest from lack of use. Mother Mallol's admission that she had not seen 'Mistress Amell' in weeks worried Alyce, even while the discovery that the 'arrangement' that Knight Commander Greagoir had put in place for the local Chantry Sisters to visit her Aunt regularly had been a profound relief. The disused path seemed only to fuel Alyce's anxiety. It was clear no one had come this way in weeks, if not, months. Cold wet branches whipped into her face, slapping at her partially-exposed shoulders as she increased her pace, trying to keep up with the Cousland. She didn't even think to cast rock armour on herself until she emerged from the forested path, colliding with Aidan Cousland's abruptly halted back and bouncing off. Stumbling against Ser Ryan's chestplate, she righted herself, staring up at the wide expanse of wilderness leading up to an imposing, dark façade.

Ser Ryan glanced over at Alyce in surprise. She had mentioned a 'cottage' in relation to her old family home. He had imagined a cosy, thatch-roofed house with a single fireplace set in amongst a quaint garden of daisies and cooking herbs (not unlike his own boyhood home), not this…stone mansion of multiple storeys, spires, numerous attics and profusion of chimney pots. The wild, misshapen trees looming at the front of the house would have once been neatly-trimmed hedges, the leaf-strewn path once swept clean of debris. A large pond presided over half the garden, now choked with dead weed and worse. The narrow stone bridge that crossed the pond was cracked, partially collapsed and completely unsafe for use.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Ser Ryan asked. Aidan shrugged.

"This is where I remember it to be," he said, poking the toe of his boot under a pile of rotting vegetation. "And this is where Mother Mallol's directions lead," he added, casting a worried look towards the still-silent mage.

Alyce continued to stare at the derelict building; at the crumbling stone, broken statues and shattered stained glass windows. She began walking forward slowly, one hand trailing despondently through the collection of tall weeds that had once been lawn.

"I think," Ser Ryan began quietly, peering warily into the deep shadows, "that we should tread carefully…"

Alyce no longer noticed either man was there. "This can't be…" she muttered in a stricken voice. "_No_…" With a small cry of despair, she took off suddenly, sliding and stumbling over the slippery path towards the bridge. It crumbled under her feet, plunging her knee-deep into stagnant pond water. With little care to her lacerated knees, Alyce extricated herself, climbing onto the bank on the other side.

"Alyce wait!" she heard Aidan call out - she skid to a halt by the huge bay window that looked out onto the remains of the garden, her fingers curling around the splintered edges of the broken panes, shaking her head in disbelief.

"No…" her voice shattered on the single, uttered word as easily as the glass of the window had.

Feet tripping on the cracked pavement she headed to the front door, finding it unlocked; the padlocks long prised apart. When she pushed it open one side came away from a hinge to hang at an awkward angle. Inside it was dark, but Alyce knew the way to Aunt Mildred's old sitting room. With the small light the half-moon provided, she could see the old high-backed chair, slashed, torn and upended, leaking stuffing across the floor. The once pristine rug was water stained and half burned as though someone had swept a burning log from the fireplace onto the floor. The drapes had caught fire it seemed; its remains hanging in sad ghostly strips, streaming in the chill breeze through the broken window.

Footsteps sounded behind her. "Makers breath! What happened here?"

Alyce turned, pushing past them wordlessly, making for the main staircase in a hurry. Halfway up, her toe caught the edge of a broken stair and she pitched forward. Collecting her limbs, she continued on, half-crawling, half-staggering the rest of the way, opening doors and slamming them shut behind her in her search. "Aunt Mildred!" she called at first, her voice turning shrill as she continued to call with no reply. "_Aunt Mildred_…!" The last door was locked. She rattled the handle violently to no avail; until in sheer frustration she froze it, then kicked it to pieces.

The room unsurprisingly, was empty. A thick layer of dust covered the furniture and walls, clouds rising at her feet as she wandered inside, her bloodied hands clutching at her hair in distress. She heard movement behind her. Without turning, she knew it was Ser Ryan and Aidan Cousland; the metallic rattle of the Templar's chain mail and the deliberate absence of sound that was Cousland.

"She's not here," she told them hoarsely. _Why am I surprised?_

"Alyce…" Aidan took a step forward, his hand extended towards her. Turning again, Alyce walked blindly past both men out of the room. They followed her, unspeaking to the end of the long hallway, down a narrow servants' stairwell past a series of silent, empty rooms. She led them through the kitchen, over scattered cookware and broken crockery, emerging outside again. Here there was a square gravel covered area bordering once neat rows of trellises, furrows and raised beds. The remains of a scarecrow hung headless and drooping from a rotting stand. Aunt Mildred's vegetable garden lay as empty and neglected as the rest of the house…

She didn't realise she'd fallen until she felt the ground hit her knees or that she was crying until heavy, salted drops fell onto the backs of her hands as they splayed across the gravel. _This is stupid…_she told herself, giving in to a sob. _The woman was old when I left…what was I supposed to expect…? _Her head dropped onto her hands, her chest aching with pent up grief. _Tap. _She felt a hand on her back. _Shuffle. _Fingers stroked through her hair. _Tap. _Soothing words were whispered into her ear, awkward but sincere in Aidan Cousland's voice. _Shuffle. _She heard the scrape of a sword being drawn…and then the sound something hard hitting metal with a resounding ring.

"Put your pig-sticker away, young man! I won't have violence in my home!"

Alyce's head whipped around. Through the sheen of tears, she could make out a ramrod straight figure standing over her. There was someone else standing a little behind, but she had little time to take them in. The sharp pointy end of a walking cane prodded her painfully and insistently in the middle of her chest. "_Well…_"

"Aunt Mil…?"

"If I'd known sending you away to that accursed place was going to turn you into a watering pot, I would have chained you in the cellar myself!"

The stick struck the ground, sending up a shower of gravel. "So…girl?" the old woman demanded imperiously. "Do I get a hug, or do I have to spend the rest of the evening standing around uselessly like an obelisk?"

Scrambling to her feet, Alyce threw herself at the old woman, a fresh bout of tears streaming unchecked into her aunt's hair. "I thought you were dead…" Alyce sobbed. "I thought you'd gone…"

"Nonsense." Aunt Mildred patted the back of Alyce's back mechanically. "It'd take more than death to slow me down…" – she frowned suddenly. Pushing Alyce firmly away, her milky eyes seemed to rake over her niece. A hand reached out, one sharp finger prodding its way down Alyce's side. "What the _blazes _are you wearing girl?" Aunt Mildred demanded in martial tones. "And where…" she added, eyebrows descending disapprovingly, "_is the rest of it?_"

-oo-


	26. A Weeping Sky

A/N: Aaaand…my habit of writing long chapters continue. Apologies (smacks self upside head). Please take frequent breaks while reading because computers tend to make sad beeping noises when people fall asleep on their keyboards. I should know…

Again and again, thank you, thank you, _thank you _for the amazing reviews. It's incredible that anyone can take time out of their busy lives to send a message, but to actually send one that indicates you might actually enjoy a couple of lines in any of these chapters is truly mind-blowing. I profess myself humbled and immensely grateful. Wow.

Um…Okay, I'll just go crawl back under my rock now…

Bioware created and own. I just hit the X-button repeatedly…

-oo-

**Chapter 26 – A Weeping Sky**

Alyce stood in the dim room, too tall for the low-hanging ceiling and too clumsy for the confined space. A small square window, apart from the creaking door was the only other opening to the single-bedroom cottage that looked as though it had been built in King Calenhad's time and had probably not been maintained since them. There was no fireplace, but a small fire pit set into the centre of the stone floor. A narrow cot and a drawerless table were the only pieces of furniture in the room; beside which was a neat pile of blankets, presumably belonging to Serenna. The smell of stale wood stained the air and walls and exposed wood. At some time in the cottage's very recent history, someone had attempted to clean the walls; but had been unable to reach high enough where the dirt had accumulated the most, leaving wide arcs like blackened rainbows across the crumbling plaster.

Straight-backed and stubborn-jawed, Aunt Mildred sat on the edge of the cot; one hand curled claw like on the head of her walking stick.

"You needn't look so disapproving, girl," she grumbled.

Alyce blushed nervously under her Aunt's blind, accusatory stare. "I wasn't…"

"You think I can't smell your disappointment, hm?" Aunt Mildred sniffed haughtily, making her point. "You're thinking how the old woman has fallen. You were expecting better."

_To be honest, I wasn't too sure what to expect…_Alyce thought, kneeling beside her aunt. "Why are you here and not at the house?" she inquired.

Mildred waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Old place got too much to look after," she said. "Didn't seem any point."

The door opened to admit Serenna, Aunt Mildred's elven assistant, carrying a tall pail of water. As the woman struggled with it a tall shadow detached itself from the shadows. Ser Ryan took the pail from the elf, setting it down by the fire pit for her. Surprised by the human's unexpected gesture, the elf ducked her head, murmuring pink-cheeked thanks.

"Hah!" Aunt Mildred barked approvingly at the Templar. "Got _that_ one well-trained!" On that pronouncement the old woman let loose a stream of hearty cackling, her cane tapping the stone floor in time to her guffaws. Alyce grimaced, purposely avoiding Ser Ryan's gaze. That kind of laughter was bound to set Templar alarms ringing. The cackle died abruptly on a disgusted harrumph. "Does no one here have a sense of humour?" Mildred shook her head in mock-despair. "What is wrong with young people these days?"

"Aunt Mildred," Alyce began all over again, feeling a sharp jab of annoyance – at herself for not being able to get to the point in a timely manner; and at her aunt for her levity - "Surely, this can't be…convenient for you. There must be…" A bony hand came to rest heavily on the top of her head. _Alyce Amell…You'll lose your head arguing with me, girl…_the memory of her aunt's voice whispered in her mind…_Lose it and you won't have anything to put food in, you carry on like that…_

"It's _comfortable_."

When her aunt spoke, the words sounded like commandments etched in ancient stone. "You can waste your breath yapping away all you like about my health and my advanced years, girl. I'm staying _here_." The authoritative delivery of Aunt Mildred's statement was tempered by several affectionate, yet energetic pats to the top Alyce's head, causing her niece's eyes to water. As Alyce surreptitiously attempted to dry her eyes, her aunt added. "You couldn't expect me to stay in that empty house. It just wasn't the same after they took you away…"

Alyce's eyes re-filled with tears, overcome by this admission. "Really Aunt Mildred…? Oh, I'm…"

"Couldn't get anyone who could clean the blasted stove as well as you could," Mildred told her unhappily. "Serenna's a dab hand at tea making, but she's got no elbow grease when it comes to cleaning." Aunt Mildred's milk-white eyes rolled heavenward. "As for her shortbreads…bloody awful. I had to buy mine from that highwayman they call a baker in the village. Wanted to charge me _ten _full coppers for a half a pound of crumbly, under-baked flour! Outrageous."

Alyce leaned back on her haunches, pouting unhappily at this revelation. _Beh…_

"No use pouting at me, girl!" her aunt snapped, rapping the stone sharply at her feet with her cane. "Hah! Think I've lost the old inner eye, eh? You were never a subtle child…" Alyce's mouth scrunched up in dismay, refusing to meet Ser Ryan's eye again. At the mention of 'inner eye' she could imagine him taking mental notes to question her later, just in case _magic _was involved. She wished the Cousland had not chosen to remain outside, braving the chilly night air, but since her aunt had identified Aidan as 'that thieving strawberry thief' (then threatened to remove more than his head from his body with large, airborne fruit), he had fled, most ungallantly from the room and had refused to return.

"Never mind," her aunt added more gently, the argument over the present living arrangements now _over_. "You've come back and you're all grown up…and you ended up with your father's face too…" Turning her head from side to side, Aunt Mildred harrumphed approvingly. "You grew tall. Never thought you would; your mother being so tiny."

Her thoughts on the young lord freezing into a Couslandsicle outside, coupled with feelings of being hard done by in this too-easy defeat, Alyce's brain began shutting down her logical thought faculties. "My mother was a…dwarf?" Alyce heard her voice say.

"Dwarf?" Mildred scoffed. "Ridiculous notion. No dwarves _here._ Ground's too soft. The stout folk prefer good solid ground, thick sturdy rock, not soft sand and crumbling limestone…'sides, there's not much profit for dwarven talents here, 'cept maybe in Amaranthine."

"Right," Alyce murmured, wishing her speech centres would shut down too.

"So no, _not _a dwarf." Mildred sighed suddenly, her voice lowering to almost a whisper. "Your mother was a remarkable woman; a smart woman and a woman with a damn good heart. Beautiful too; you couldn't look at her and not feel better for being in her company. Can't say you resemble her too much," Mildred said with a shrug, "but we can't all be blessed with good looks…"

"But, Aunt Mildred," Alyce protested, quite aware that her promise to herself earlier - to show her aunt what a sensible, smart adult she had grown into - was pretty much a complete and utter failure. "You used to tell me how a person's looks don't matter…!"

"Well of course I did," her aunt snapped. "You were a child. Children shouldn't care about that sort of thing. Grownups now, that's a different story. No one wants to be left on the bench without a dance partner. That would be embarrassing and pathetic. No, you ended up with magic." She cackled again, her melancholy short-lived. "That's your father in you. Heh, put the wind up the old man when Revy started showing the 'talent'." Another burst of laughter before Alyce found her forehead being firmly poked with a sharp finger. "So you get to blow people up too, or does that old sourpuss hanging about by my window spoil the fun?"

"S-s-s-sour…?" Alyce tried, knowing, just _knowing _she was going to be grilled by the 'old sourpuss' all the way back to Castle Cousland about magic in her family.

"Templar isn't he?" Aunt Mildred asked of Ser Ryan. "I can smell Chantry a mile away. Smell like candles, incense and self-righteousness, though Mallol's a good sort, I suppose." Eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring, she added, "Been hearing some interesting things from the capital by the way." Aunt Mildred gave Alyce a sharp look that had nothing to do with the ability to actually _see._ "Been hearing a _Mage _and a _Templar _have been up to all sorts of mischief…Landsmeetin', Hero-slayin', allying themselves with all manner of folks, including the Redcliffe lad…Most ridiculous beard I've ever seen on a fellow."

_Well, it's just as well you're not likely to meet the First Enchanter then…_Alyce cleared her throat. "The Arl of Redcliffe?" she asked, happy to keep the attention away from herself and her 'left on the benches with no dance partner' looks…

"That'd be the one!" Mildred exclaimed. "Married some Orlesian sow's ear. No smart Ferelden girl would have him – and why would they? Marry a man with a food sieve on his face? Anyway…so I was saying; Mage and Templar…"

"Not us," Alyce assured her Aunt hurriedly. "But a…" For some reason, Alyce found it difficult owning up to knowing Neria. "They're both Grey Wardens. I'm just your ordinary, common garden-variety Mage from the Tower, and Ser Ryan your average Templar."

"Didn't hear him coming in with a skirt," Aunt Mildred pointed out suspiciously.

"They're in the wash," Alyce told her Aunt. "Which brings me to my next…"

"Grey Wardens, hm?" Aunt Mildred interrupted gleefully again, "flying down on their Griffons? I'd like to see that! Course, I can't, being blind."

"Well, Griffons are kind of extinct," Alyce reminded her.

"Stink? They sure would – head of an eagle, arse of a lion – course they'd stink!"

"No, ex – tinct. They don't exist anymore, Aunt Mildred."

"Of course I knew that, silly girl. I was just having a bit of a lend." She paused. "Now, are you going to grow a _spine_ and get to your point? I'm sure you didn't come here to insult my choice of abode and convince me to start choosing my burial plot. Quite frankly, child, I'm getting bored with constantly having to interrupt you to entertain myself."

"Ah, ha, ha, ha…" Alyce laughed nervously. "You see, er…I can't stay…here. Well, not right now, maybe…?"

"Mm?"

"Did you know there was a Blight on?" Alyce asked, wishing she hadn't made it sound like a casual performance the darkspawn were putting on, like a mobile pantomime or a travelling circus…"The Mages have promised the Grey Wardens help against the Blight," she said, adding in an embarrassed afterthought; "I'm a Mage."

"Ah…" Aunt Mildred's milky gaze considered the ceiling. "Well, I'm most appreciative of your informing me the country is being threatened by poisonous monsters ravaging our lands, destroying our towns and eating our children," her aunt told her wryly. "I wouldn't have heard that, being an isolated, old shut-in with nothing better to do but twiddle my thumbs and eat custard all day." Mildred allowed a generous pause, so the chagrined grimace could leave her niece's all too mobile face. There were times when Mildred could hear her niece's expressions even before they _happened_. "You'll be going, I expect," Aunt Mildred couldn't help adding mockingly. "Being a Mage and all that."

"Yes Aunt Mildred," Alyce replied meekly.

"What about Ser Wallprop?" Mildred reminded her sharply, "The one with the skirt in the wash?"

"Of course," Ser Ryan said gravely from the shadows.

"Hah!" Mildred crowed. "Well, good luck to the both of you in that case! Don't get eaten or anything, girl. I'm looking forward to your shortbread again." Her head swivelled around to bestow a searing stare at Ser Ryan. "And you'll keep her safe, I suppose?" There was an almost audible threat in the old woman's voice that Ser Ryan took very seriously.

"Yes, Mistress Amell. I give you my word as a champion of the Prophet..."

"Bored!" Mildred proclaimed with a half-yawn. "Nor does your word as a champion of some silly gel who didn't have enough sense not to tell anyone she was having a torrid affair with a deity _mean _anything to me. Hah!" She turned back to Alyce. "My niece is an _Amell. _The only ones we need protecting from usually, is _ourselves…_"

-oo-

The sound of booted feet in the courtyard echoed eerily off the chilly stone. Accompanied by the muffled metallic rattle of chainmail and armour, the combined din masked the sound of Alyce's chattering teeth. Icy fog swirled waist-high in a layer that felt several degrees lower than the air around her shoulders. Not that her upper body was any warmer; only slightly less cold, even if the warmth of her embarrassment from her interview with her aunt had still to dissipate.

Jogging on the spot, Alyce slapped at her arms in a vain attempt to warm herself, replaying the words of her aunt while cursing the Tevinters and their unfairly warm climate. As she hopped first on one foot, then the other, something heavy was thrown over her head. She yelped in surprise, picking the heavy material off herself and holding it up for inspection.

"You just will not learn, will you?" Aidan Cousland ruffled the top of her unruly head. "The only Mage with us and she freezes to death before we get anywhere near the North Road, much less _Redcliffe_. That's not going to look good." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Or maybe…we could take advantage of that, load you into a trebuchet and lob you at the darkspawn. Andraste's nosehairs, why stop there? We'll throw you at the _Archdemon_."

She made a face at him, her exasperated gaze spotting Ser Ryan across the courtyard. The Templar had been given a set of the Highever armour; the same kind that Aidan wore, only slightly less ornate than the young lord. It was a deep, dark grey that was almost black, with a leather cape, boots and gloves of ebony, edged with a pattern of stamped silver leaves that accentuated his wide shoulders and dark skin. His long hair of deep chocolate had been pulled back into its usual ponytail, slender tendrils of pepper curling at his ears and neck. Deep in conversation with Teyrn Cousland presented them both his profile; the darkness of his skin a stark contrast to Bryce Cousland's tired pallor. Alyce stared, completely unaware that she'd stopped berating Aidan or that she'd been giving the sculptured planes of Ser Ryan's profile undue attention until a piece of cloth dangled suddenly in front of her face.

"Here," Aidan's voice said dryly. "A handkerchief," he told her. "You'll need it to wipe the drool from your chin."

Alyce snatched the cloth from his fingers in as highly offended a way as possible. "I was not drooling," she said coolly, dabbing delicately at her face anyway. "There was no reason to…" Ser Ryan turned, catching Alyce's gaze. He gave her a regal nod of acknowledgement; a slight tilt of his own, drool-less chin that made the leaves on his leather cape glint in the light of the setting moon.

"Oh good grief, give it back to me," Aidan snatched the handkerchief from her limp fingers, giving his face a good swipe. "Now _I'm _drooling…"

"Peh!" Alyce waved a hand dismissively. "I abhor your taste in men!"

"I'm not _that _easily swayed…" Aidan wiggled his eyesbrows at her suggestively. Throwing his arm over her shoulder, he flicked the handkerchief under her nose. Turning his gaze back to the Templar, he sighed. "But you know…for _him_…maybe…"

"Right." Alyce turned abruptly away. "That's just…I'm not listening, because it's just…._rude, _and where I come from…where I come from…let me tell _you_…," She threw her hands upwards again, this time in surrender. "Well, alright, to be honest I've known some Mages to do it with _chairs _– and _don't _ask! – because I'm not going to tell you. "

"The mind boggles."

"Yes, well it can go boggle somewhere else…uh, thank you for the handkerchief. I think."

"Um…excuse me, Miss Alyce?"

Both of them looked up into the newcomer's earnest – and hopeful - face. Aidan did not remove his arm from around Alyce's shoulders. He instead tightened his hold, pulling the Mage closer to his side. "Geraint!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Thank you for the swords – perfectly done as usual." He grinned at Alyce's puzzled expression. "Young Geraint Ap Gavin here has been working on a matching set of foils for me. Stunning work. You'd think they were made of moonbeams and butterfly wings; uh, very _sharp_ butterfly wings and almost impossibly light."

Geraint looked pleased at the compliment, though he added, "I wish you'd let me put a bit more substance into the blades, my lord. A bit of extra weight is a good thing in a fight."

"Not for me," Aidan replied. "Ser Templar and your average soldier might favour something with a bit of mountain behind it. Me, I prefer to cut and run." Again, the eyebrow wiggling. "Well, and how can we help you?" Aidan prompted the younger, larger man.

Annoyance flashed for the briefest moment across Geraint's hazel eyes, indicating some kind of history between the two men. He said nothing about it however, extending his right arm to present Alyce with a long wrapped object that was almost as tall as the Mage herself. "I wanted to give this to you," he told Alyce quietly. "I remembered seeing it once in the old Master's collection when I first started my apprenticeship. I wondered whether he'd still had it or whether Howe's soldiers had taken it as booty. They didn't…and well, Mages use these things, right?"

Automatically, Alyce's hand reached out towards the wrapping. She could feel the magic calling out to her from underneath the oiled cloth and thin rope. Geraint untied the knots binding it; the wrapping falling away to reveal a carved silverite staff of such beauty, she was torn between snatching it out of the blacksmith's grip and recoiling from touching it with her ugly hands. She had never seen anything like it, not even in the First Enchanter's company or in any of the underground storerooms of the Mages' Tower. Curious inscriptions crawled across its surface…_elven, _perhaps, the hand grips fluted in perfectly straight, even lines. In whole it resembled a long stemmed flower, like a lily or a tulip fully opened. And in the centre of the 'flower', seated amongst stylised sepals was a carved rock. Alyce knew the bluish luminescent glow before she even reached out for its alluring light, barely aware of Ser Ryan's urgent shout across the courtyard.

"No! Don't touch it!"

Pure lyrium. The Mages' poison.

The Templar snatched the staff from Alyce's hand, holding it away from her. Geraint stepped around him deftly, a massive hand closing around his brother's forearm, brows drawn downwards in anger. "It's _shielded, _Ry," he growled. "Did you think I wouldn't have checked?"

Ser Ryan looked towards the Mage. She shrugged at him. "It's pretty," she said, "but if you don't want me to have it," she added in a reasonable voice, "I'll leave it behind…"

"It's a _gift,_" Geraint glared down at his older brother.

"A very _expensive_ gift," Aidan Cousland's voice piped up appreciatively. Like a hungry cat fishing for goldfish in a pond, he retrieved the staff with a single swipe, flipping it upwards and deftly catching it. Stepping away from them, he twirled it experimentally in the air. It _sang _as it spun. "Ooh…a very nice feature. I _like _it. Almost makes me wish I was a Mage too. Of course, I'd have to wear a dress and let's face it; gorgeous as I am, I just do _not _have the legs for it."

Alyce threw her hands up in the air. "Cousland! They're called 'robes', not dresses."

"Look like dresses to me."

In the background, the call to begin muster was blown; taken up by the herald at the gates. A moment later, another horn-call answered the second at the village entrance. The Cousland troops, under the Teyrn's order stood to attention.

"Whoa!" Aidan told them all enthusiastically. "That's my cue." He wiggled gloved fingers at them all, "Toodles…" The two brothers were still glaring at each other however. With a roll of his eyes, he sighed at them, "Ser Ryan; to me."

With an apologetic mutter, Ser Ryan tore himself away, placing himself at Aidan's side as the younger Cousland formally accepted command of the Highever troops from the Teyrn. Son and father clasped each other's shoulders briefly; infinite regret in the older man's eyes.

"May the Maker go with you, pup…" the Teyrn told the younger man. Aidan returned the grave farewell with a confident grin.

"I'll bring him back, father. This I swear."

"Well then."

Alyce slipped quietly to Aidan Cousland's left; Ser Ryan remaining at the young lord's right. Together the abysmally small Highever army marched out of the courtyard, down the short avenue to pass under the portcullis. What greeted them was another honour guard of Highever residents, lining the wide main street of the village; mostly silent except for the murmur of prayer and softly voiced wishes for safe returns. At the village entrance, Aidan Cousland halted briefly, allowing his men one last moment of farewell to their home. They had still to march further south to reach the North Road, taking them out of the Teyrnir through the Bannorn and towards Lake Calenhad and their final destination of Redcliffe, but as few of the men sent to Ostagar had returned...When the moment had passed, Aidan turned back, ready to head on. He found both Mage and Templar staring horror-stricken not south-west, but towards the other end of the country.

The morning fog had for once been of short duration, lifting to reveal the lilac-brown fields of the Highever farmlands. It was not the rolling, pastoral scene of sedate farm creatures and the rustic going about their daily morning lives that had trapped Alyce and Ser Ryan's collective gazes however, but the blood-red sky hanging ominously to the south-east.

"Maker's blood…" he breathed. "What the…what _is_ that?" he asked.

"It's the Blight," Alyce said, attempting to repress a wince and failing.

"What do you mean?" Aidan asked.

"The horde," Ser Ryan told him, his voice grim. "They're in Denerim, not Redcliffe." He gave a bleak shake of his head, "We're too late…" he said of the bleeding, lacerated sky where even the dark clouds appeared to be weeping blood.

Ser Ryan's hand clenched around the pommel of his longsword. _The Wardens have failed…and so has Ferelden…_"If Denerim has fallen," he said hoarsely, "Then Ferelden too has been lost to the Blight."

-oo-


	27. End of the World

A/N: A quick warning folks. Chapter contains blood, gore, horrible nasty bits, and exploding darkspawn. If you're a bit squeamish, hugging teddy or skim-reading is recommended.

-oo-

**Chapter 27 – End of the World**

The door creaked on its elderly hinges; the lightest of footfalls crossed the room, barely heard over the wail and thunder of the storm outside, but Mildred Amell still heard them. It was just another, common Highever storm; the ones that frequently swept in from the Amaranthine Ocean to gather strength in the Waking Sea before hurling its destructive forces into the coast. By the time it reached the Bannorn, the buffering lands of Highever would have leeched most of its momentum, turning it into nothing more than a heavy downpour with a bit of a breeze. As far as Aunt Mildred was concerned, it was background noise. What happened in her immediate area was far more important.

"I admire your dedication, woman," Mildred spoke into the warm darkness, grateful as always during one of these storms that they had moved to these old servants' quarters on the estate. The manor had always been draughty and the simple act of moving from one room to another was a test of one's physical fortitude. These old places had been _built _to exclude the weather in a time before common sense and a love of goats had been bred out of people. Mildred could appreciate practicality like that, but she did draw the line at the goat. Warm and stuffy was bearable. Add a goat into that arrangement and the 'bearable' bit was removed by default. "You needn't have gone out in the rain."

A dull wooden clunk answered this statement, followed by the hiss of fire protesting at being disturbed.

"Now, Mistress Amell," Serenna's soft voice reasoned. "We can't afford to run out of wood in a storm like this."

"Hmph."

Mildred threw the blanket from her shoulders, lumping it onto the end of the cot. A single iron-grey eyebrow rose as she held out her hand, palm up. A gentle chuckle greeted the gesture. "No matter how quiet I try to be, Mistress Amell, you always seem to know when I have your tea ready."

The older woman's mouth curved upwards in a self-satisfied smile. "You make a very distinctive brew, my girl," she told her. "It's the lemon and bergamot. It gives you away every time..." Her fingers curled around the saucer, her right hand unerringly finding the handle of the cup. Mildred brought the tea to her nose and inhaled deeply. "Ah, but that warms the cockles with just a sniff. Your timing as usual, Serenna, is perfect."

"You were starting to look slightly harassed, Mistress, if I may be so bold to say so."

"Boldness is good," Mildred told her. "Timidity not so much…" She leant back against the wall with a sigh. "I wish my niece had had the courage to show a bit of Amell spirit. I tell you; playing the eccentric old dragon was exhausting. Don't know how the oldies do it – and you don't need to remind me I _am _an 'oldie'."

Serenna laughed out loud. "It comes naturally, usually…" the elf told her. There was a short pause then in a quieter voice, added, "I thought for a moment you were going to tell her about her mother."

Sipping at her cup of tea, Mildred marshalled her thoughts. Yes she supposed she had been about to, it was true, but in the end the time did not seem right. It was quite clear her niece had had her mind on other things; Mildred knowing exactly what. Highever might be sometimes a little _detached _from the rest of the country, but it didn't mean they weren't _involved_. Mother Mallol – bless her sensible stockings – had been an excellent source of news and the Knight Commander had always been a reliable correspondent, for a child thief…Word of Ostagar had been difficult to bear. To say it had been a relief to find that Alyce had been one of the survivors would have been the least of things to say about it. If she was ever given the opportunity to speak her mind, she would start with the _First Enchanter_ and his throwaway-Mage policy…

As for everything else…well, the country hadn't been the same since young Maric died and now it was suffering again. Maric's replacement hadn't been up to the job. Silly boob of a man had to be in the thick of things, didn't he? It might have worked for Maric; poor man didn't have a choice, but young King Cailan should have been advised better. It appeared boobiness went all the way back to Maric's most trusted advisor and the daughter, though Mildred had expected better of Anora…Mildred frowned. _Perhaps 'boobiness' isn't a word I should use here…_

Hm, and so the stories she'd been hearing of a _Mage and Templar _were not of her niece and travelling companion…not that it set her mind completely at ease. Mildred knew her niece as well as she knew herself; the poor girl had her father's temperament as well as his looks…She allowed a smile to herself. The Amells had always produced handsome children, even if the Amell chin made a girl look obstinate. It had been fun teasing Alyce about her looks all the same. She could never abide vain women. As for the girl's mother…as it seemed her niece was about to head into an entirely messy mess of her own, she didn't need another pile of griffon do-do to add to her troubles.

"My niece has enough on her plate, is my opinion," Mildred said finally, placing the tea cup back onto the saucer. "She'll get to know eventually, I suppose. " She sighed, shaking her head. "So tell me," she added, leaning forward slightly. "What were _your_ thoughts?"

Serenna sat daintily on the pile of blankets by the cot. "I think the Templar suspected me," the elf spoke slowly and carefully. "But…" here she frowned. "He wasn't able to…There was something not quite right about him. As though he was…unfinished, perhaps. I'm not even sure whether that is the correct way of putting it, to be quite honest." The elf held a hand out towards the fire. "A Highever lad, isn't he?" she mused, her eyes fixed on the centre of the flames.

"Hardly 'a lad'," Mildred scoffed. "Must be more than thirty…what an old voice he had."

"Not a lad," Serenna conceded. "But hardly past the prime of his life."

"Men in this country live far too short a life," Mildred muttered under her breath, thinking of faces and names from far too long ago to become teary-eyed over. Not anymore. "Anything else?" she prompted.

The elf gave an apologetic shrug. "I am sorry, Mistress Amell. I think I need more time to make a proper assessment. I don't think however, that your niece is in any danger with him," she was quick to point out.

"My niece can look after herself," Mildred stated grimly, with a stubborn tilt of her own Amell chin.

The elf agreed silently, sipping at the last of her own tea.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window shutters violently. Mildred turned her head towards the sound, her forehead furrowing in worry. "I'm just hoping," she added sombrely, "that 'looking after herself' stretches far enough to see her through this storm."

-oo-

Denerim was on fire. Literally.

It had taken a few minutes to find their bearings; nothing had looked as it did the last time they were here. The once impressive northern gate was a pile of rubble and smoking wood, the gatehouses a smouldering ruin. Drifts of heavy smoke obscured the city roofline beneath a sullen sky threatening with rain. The smell of scorched flesh combined unpleasantly with the stench of darkspawn and fear and death. Alyce paused, covering her face and mouth with a shaking hand, overpowered by the vile air and choking smoke, feeling ill. A heavy hand fell onto her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She looked up into Ser Ryan's face and saw the memories of Ostagar reflected there. Her hand went to the pouch of ashes around her neck…she could even hear the mabari barking in her head, except…_wait…_

"Maker's spittoon!" Aidan Cousland exclaimed, pointing up ahead. "What's one of _those_ doing here?" He broke into a run, his soldiers hastily following after him as much in an attempt to support him as to not be left behind. Few died under the young master's command…

Cousland practically threw himself at the lone mabari. He looked up from scratching madly at the hound's ears and head in a paroxysm of dog-loving glee to gesture at Alyce. "Come over here!" he yelled. "I told you no two look alike!" Impatient with waiting for her to arrive, he dashed over and pulled the Mage towards the mabari. "Look!" he exclaimed. "This one's from the Dragon's Peak line," he explained excitedly. "See the patch of white here, it…" A mighty rumble rent the skies overhead, drowning out Aidan's words. As one the Highever party looked upwards, to see a great shadow soaring overhead. It flew low over the rooftops of the city; wing beats audible over the roar and crackle of the city falling slowly but steadily to the darkspawn onslaught.

"That…that's…is that a _dragon…?_" one of the soldiers gasped in terror, poising to flee.

"Stand fast, man!" Aidan bellowed. "We are Highever! We do not _run_! We do not fear!"

On his commander's words, the soldier squared his shoulders, though he still remained in a half-crouch, skin pale under the thin layer of soot and dust accumulated from their journey from Highever. "A-Aye, my lord…" the soldier murmured, voice trailing into the mabari's warning bark. The ground thundered under their feet; rubble shifted. The remains of a guardhouse collapsed completely over the shaking ground. They heard the eerie growl before the horrible visage of an ogre came into view. Dripping in gore it held the remains of something or some_one _in its misshapen claw. Catching sight of the Highever group, it turned and hurled the clawful of body parts at them.

"To arms!" Cousland yelled, as he and his men scattered to avoid the bloody projectile.

"_Mine_!" Alyce skidded to a halt in front of the mabari, magic singing down her arms as the mage staff drew power from her. _Let's see what this thing can do…_Before the first of the Highever soldiers could draw their weapons a blast of white fire exploded from the end of the staff, hitting the ogre squarely in its chest, shearing its torso from its body…and then it _exploded_, leaving nothing behind but a couple of greyish, bloodied leg stumps standing forlorn, and ownerless. Just behind her, the mabari whined and sneezed.

"Well…" Cousland's voice sounded equal parts appreciative, disgusted and terrified. "That was…not tidy. I think next time, a bit of forewarning…?"

Alyce flicked a bit of Ogre off her arm with a grimace, swallowing convulsively in an attempt to keep her bile in her stomach and not on public display. "Noted," she agreed between tightly gritted teeth. "And…" she added urgently. "Duck!" Popping darkspawn like paper bags full of soft rancid cheese, Alyce started forward, mabari and soldiers at her heels. The mabari loped ahead, stopping briefly to bark over its shoulder. Aidan brushed past Alyce, twin rapiers drawn. He hadn't been jesting when he'd told them his new swords were as thin as butterfly's wings. If the metal had not been reflecting the firelight, Alyce would have thought he was holding two empty hand guards.

"He wants us to follow him!" Aidan translated the mabari's double-yap. "There are soldiers up ahead!"

Shaking her head at the eccentricity of nobles and their hounds, Alyce and Ser Ryan followed, their party coming upon a scattered group of grim-looking, mail-clad soldiers, seemingly under the command of a white-haired giant.

The large man turned at their approach, the massive piece of metal wielded in his huge hands rising briefly before a reassuring bark from the mabari had him lowering the broadsword. The mabari stopped in front of the giant, dropping its scarred bottom to the ground and looking adoringly up at the man. The giant nodded in acknowledgement; one warrior to another. "You have brought reinforcements," he rumbled like an ogre's charge. "Good."

Alyce approached the giant, mouth agape. "You're…" she began. "You're one of Neria's companions!" she exclaimed.

The giant's eyes narrowed at her. "And you are the other mage…" he told her, his lavender gaze raking her from be-slimed head to mucky toe. "The one missing half her clothes…"

"Yeah," Alyce rolled her eyes. "You know what, that joke's getting _really_ old."

Aidan sidled up to Alyce. He elbowed her in the side. "Boyfriend of yours?" he asked out of the side of his mouth. "You certainly get around…"

Alyce ignored him. "Where are the Grey Wardens?" she asked instead.

"With any luck, beating the living nug-crap out of a really big, winged lizard," a gravelly voice spoke from somewhere. Alyce looked around, but could not see anyone, until a helpful hand tugged at her skirt. "Oi." Alyce looked down into a cherry-cheeked, hairy face. Two cornflower blue eyes peeked out from under a pair of caterpillar thick eyebrows the colour of flame. "I ain't that tiny," he told her, hefting a wide-bladed axe. "But if ya like, I can cut ya down to my size…Make it a bit easier to see eye to eye. Not that I'm complainin' about the _view _from where I'm standin'…"

"Oh sure," Alyce resisted the urge to pat the top of his spiky red head. "And if you like I can set your underdrawers on fire…"

"Oh yeah? I might like that…" he wiggled his eyebrows at her. "That'd be kind of _hot_…"

"Hello?" Aidan felt inclined to intervene. "Can we postpone the dwarf-porn to another time? I don't know whether you've noticed but…darkspawn…burning city…death, destruction, impending doom…end of the world as we know it?"

It was the Templar that stepped up next, addressing the giant standing quietly to the side, watchful gaze scanning the area. "Where were the Grey Wardens headed?" Ser Ryan asked. The giant turned. Raising a massive arm, he pointed wordlessly towards the highest part of Denerim. "Fort Drakon…" Ser Ryan mused, his own eyes tracking shadowy, winged movement across the sky. The dragon circled the River Drakon, dipping low to rake trailing claws over the crumbling spires of the royal palace, then angling upwards again. It disappeared briefly into the clouds. Lightning flared, illuminating its passage through smoke and cloud. "I see…" Ser Ryan murmured. "They intend to lure the creature to the top of the Fort, it seems."

"Dragon…" Alyce muttered. "What's so special about the dragon…surely that's not…the…you know what?"

"Do I know what?" the dwarf asked. "You mean the Archdemon?" Alyce nodded mutely. "Yeah, that'll be the one." He poked her middle with the head of his axe. "Smart one, you are. You'll never pull the wool over my eyes."

Pursing her lips, Alyce let this insult go. Gripping her mage staff in both hands, she held it out in front of her like a shield. "Right," she announced, voice diamond-hard with determination. "If that's where Neria is, then that's where _I'll_ be…" She took a couple of steps forward, then paused. Turning sheepishly back towards the others, she grimaced. "Uh…never been to Fort Drakon before…can uh, someone give me directions…? Please?"

-oo-

Aidan Cousland was distracting her. Leaping over charred bodies, skipping lightly over piles of rubble; Cousland's rapiers sliced through the darkspawn as though they were nothing more than walking, growling blocks of soft butter. Alyce couldn't help staring in awe, sending hexes into the crowd of darkspawn before him, hurling paralysis glyphs at the perimeter and freezing a Hurlock archer so one of the Highever soldiers could smash into it with his shield. She paused to send another wave of energy at the Cousland and his men, her boots sliding dangerously in the pools of gore. She turned briefly, her rejuvenating spell at the ready for Ser Ryan, but found she could not locate the Templar. Somehow along the way, she had lost track of him. But…She tried blaming Cousland and his theatrical battle technique, but it was a poor excuse. Cold panic seized her. Alyce had been sure that Ser Ryan had been with them when they had begun their flight towards the fort…

"Alyce!" Aidan called urgently. "No time to stand about! Come _on_!"

_But…!_ Looking around wildly, she could see no sign of Ser Ryan. Two of the Highever soldiers were also missing.

"Alyce!" Aidan's voice called more urgently.

A loud, angry shriek rent the air. Blue fire rained from the sky; Alyce threw up an ice barrier just in time. There was an almighty crash behind them as a burning building imploded across the street they had just crossed, showering the immediate area with glowing ash and superheated debris.

"Damn!" Aidan growled, brushing smoking embers from his armour. "There goes our escape route. Nothing for it but to go forward." Turning, he dashed up the hill. Alyce paused one last time, eyes searching the burning street before she too turned to follow the Cousland in case she lost sight of him too. He wasn't easy to track. Fleet of foot, Alyce had had to work hard to keep up with him. His soldiers were used to his punishing pace, but if not for her own rejuvenation spells, she would have fallen behind long ago. Is that what had happened to Ser Ryan, she wondered? _No, I've seen him fight…he's fast…not as fast as the Cousland but…_

Everything happened too quickly. One moment they were running, the next the world _exploded_, shattering around them. The air shrieked in agony; the wind howling like a lone wolf calling to its pack. It hit them; a white-hot rush of _pressure_ and then…nothing. There appeared to be a moment of complete confusion and then inexplicably, the darkspawn in the area began to flee, trampling over each other in panicked escape, blundering into burning piles or onto waiting swords.

Alyce stood still as a rock, buffeted by darkspawn and soldiers - elves, human, dwarves – alike, numb and speechless in the chaos. _What in the Fade just happened?_ Apprehensive, she looked upwards at the squared towers of Fort Drakon. Unable to see anything from here, she closed her eyes, her inner eye probing gently at the Fade…_Neria…hear me…_

There was nothing.

Choking back a scream of anger, Alyce began to run. Vaguely aware of urgent shouts behind her, she continued on, through a courtyard littered with bodies and up a set of stone steps. Down corridors, and up endless staircases, she stumbled until she broke out upon the highest level of the tallest tower. There were bodies here; too many to count. Some were rising to their feet, others draped across the stonework and splintered siege weapons, unable to move from sheer shock or simply…dead. Alyce cared little for the cries of pain and suffering, her eyes darting about, searching for the familiar small figure that should have been Neria Surana.

The wind shifted. Lightning crackled overhead. Rain pattered upon the stone and dying. Above the increasing rattle of water falling from a relieved sky, Alyce heard a keening cry of despair.

At the end of the wide square, flaring by a collapsed wall was the tiniest glow, abruptly snuffed. Alyce staggered clumsily towards it, skidding over glistening innards and the shredded remains of dragon wing. A bloodied, crumpled heap nearby barely registered as Senior Enchanter Wynne. Alyce ignored the other mage, her attention wholly consumed by the grieving elf.

Robes tattered and soaked in sweat and blood, Neria crouched over a prone, armoured form, shuddering sobs racking her slender body.

"What have I done?" she cried, clutching at the ripped edges of thick armour. "What have I _done_?"

Alyce knelt beside her friend. A single touch awoke the elf from her mourning state. Neria hurled herself at Alyce, knocking the staff from her friend's hands. Alyce patted Neria's back, frowning at the smudged face of the fallen warrior. His armour had once been golden, the chest plate embossed with the head of a dragon, balefully glaring…how ironic that it had been a _dragon who…_

"Um…Ner?"

Neria collapsed across Alyce's lap, breathing laboured and tears continuing to fall. Shifting her exhausted friend slightly, Alyce stretched her hand towards the other Grey Warden, grimacing at her lack of reach. Her fingers brushed the seared padding under the gaping hole in Warden Alistair's chest plate. She sighed, shuffling closer; Neria's shaking body a dead weight. She looked about. Wynne was beginning to stir, despite the awkward angle at which the elder mage's spine appeared to be oriented. Eyes narrowing, Alyce shook her head, then turned back to Neria. Stroking the bloodied mats of star-coloured hair from her friend's face, Alyce bent down.

"Neria…" she whispered. "You idiot. He's alive…"

Neria looked up sharply, her beautiful face was…not so beautiful when she was crying, scrunched up like a wadded piece of parchment, her tears intermingling with the rain streaking pale lines down her cheeks. "What?" she asked.

"He's alive," Alyce told her. _Barely…but we can fix that…sort of…_

"Oh…" Neria breathed. She looked towards her fellow Warden and with a soft half-sigh…fainted.

-oo-


	28. Lost

A/N: Quick warning - chapter contains death of a character…

-oo-

**Chapter 28 – Lost**

The trouble with treating an injured person with Templar abilities, Alyce found, was that in the throes of delirium, the chance of being Holy Smited, Spell Cleansed, Mana Drained or _worse…propositioned, _was quite high. Pulling the covers back over Warden Alistair, Alyce felt she had good reason to be grateful that the recipient of one of these Templar techniques had been a large and rather beefy mage by the name of Deane and not Petra or herself. Deane was of sturdy highland stock. A few broken bones, minor lacerations and a severe case of embarrassment was all he had come away with. If the slightly-built Petra had been attending him at the time, she would not have fared as well…

"So, how is the king?"

The young red-haired healer had been undeterred by the incident, taking up her usual shift at the Warden's side when it came to be her turn again.

"He tried to drain my mana only once," Alyce informed her. "And that only a token effort."

Petra made a soft noise of approval, her healer's eyes taking in the state of the Warden's bandages; the pallor of his skin…"That's an improvement," she said. The recovery of the patient - once he had been declared out of danger - had been rapid, considering the severity of his injury. "He's lucky you were there when you were, Alyce." Petra leant down, smoothing invisible creases from the bed clothes and giving them a final, motherly pat. "The Senior Enchanter told me he would not still be with us, if you had not been there."

_The Senior Enchanter…_Alyce's forehead furrowed in deep, unhappy lines. Warden Alistair had been the lucky despatcher of the dragon; a rather persistent beast, even in its final moments. As the Warden had delivered the final blow required to kill the Archdemon, it had lashed out with the last of it fury and strength; talons ripping through metal and muscle; splintering bone and slicing through the exposed lungs beneath. Such an injury would have killed most people but clearly, Warden Alistair was not 'most' people. On the other hand, he had been _alive _when Alyce had found him. It had been quite a different story for Senior Enchanter Wynne…Once upon a time, Alyce would have called the Senior Enchanter quite sprightly for her age…Growing old gracefully being what it was (a bit hit and miss for most except for the stubbornest of individuals), Alyce had admired Wynne for her ability to thumb her nose at Father Time. Now…well really, the entire situation had gone a bit beyond all logic and mere expectation. In fact, the Senior Enchanter hanging around still was quite frankly, _ridiculous_.

Death became her. _Mostly_.

"How is Neria?" Alyce asked, unable to keep the slight growl from out of her voice.

Petra wagged her head from side, oblivious to Alyce's tone of voice or her dark thoughts. "Oh, she's doing just fine." Pulling out the drawers of the bedside cabinet in an inventory of poultices, she added, "I looked in on her on my way here. She's up and about."

"Really?" Alyce smiled, happy to hear the good news. "That's great. I am glad…"

"She and Wynne were having a grand old chin wag," Petra chuckled. Finishing her inventory to her satisfaction, she moved a chair closer to the patient. With her back being turned to Alyce for most of the conversation, she did not see the smile fall abruptly from the taller mage's face, nor the thundercloud descend upon it.

"Really…? Wynne…" Alyce muttered darkly.

"Oh! I almost forgot," Petra slapped her forehead with a hand. "There is a young gentleman outside," she said. Petra turned her head briefly to _wink _over her shoulder at Alyce. "Waiting for _you, _he said," she added in an eyebrow-wiggling voice that Alyce – being immersed once more in less than light internal conversations with herself – completely missed.

"Sure...So, I'll swing by later, I guess…?" Alyce asked.

"Oh no need," Petra told her breezily. "Neria feels she's ready to take Deane's place in the roster."

"Are you sure?" Alyce frown. "I really don't mind…"

The other mage cut her off with a nod towards the door; the gesture tempered by a friendly smile. "Visitor," she reminded Alyce. Seating herself, Petra removed a slender book from her robe pocket and, licking her finger in a most unhealerlike fashion, found her place. Feeling dismissed, Alyce turned, pouting, towards the door.

Deep in thought, she had not realised the ugly face she had been making until she heard a yelp and the person in the hallway threw up his arms, crossing them in front of him. After a short space of time, Aidan Cousland peeked around a protective glove.

"Is it safe to come out now?" he inquired.

Alyce forced her eyes to focus. Tapping a finger on her chin, she murmured, "Oh. It's you."

Cousland staggered, hand over heart as though mortally wounded. "Ooh, ouch. That just _stings. _Right _here, _see? I think someone needs to kiss it better."

"Huh?" She realised he was pointing to a part of himself that _no one _should kiss; in a guard-posted corridor of the royal palace or…well…_anywhere_. In a slightly panicked voice she commanded, "Cousland, I swear, if you expose yourself in the royal palace, I'll…I'll…"

"You'll get all excited and swoon?" Cousland looked hopefully at her.

"No…at least, I don't think so. Why?" she asked, worrying she'd missed something in his conversation, somewhere. "Should I?"

"I am pretty amazing," he stated modestly.

"Hm," Alyce told him, clearly impressed. Giving her head a shake she asked, wide-eyed, "Did you want something?"

"Uh…" Had he just grimaced, or had it been her imagination? "Just wondering how long you were going to be with the Warden." Aidan tucked his thumbs into the top of his sword belt, rocking back and forth slightly on his feet. "Are you done here?" he asked.

Alyce nodded, pointing down the hallway. "I was going to look in on Neria on my way through after I'd finished with the _king, _yes."

"Huh…" He shook a finger at her, back in semi-sensible nobleman mode. "The Landsmeet might have voted against the Regent and Queen Anora in favour of the Grey Wardens, but until the Grand Cleric fits the Restraining Head Band on his head and bestows the Amazing Technicolour Coat of Dead Things on him, Warden Alistair is still Warden Alistair and _not _the King…" Swivelling on his boot heels, Aidan grabbed her arm, tucking it comfortably through his.

Strolling forwards, he added, "Weeell…for the purposes of making legislation, spending hard-earned taxes and smacking page boys over the head with the royal sceptre he isn't. Wearing the golden metal suit to stand at the head of the Ferelden army might have an exclusion clause…" He slid a sly look at her sideways. Seeing that once again Alyce Amell had failed to take the bait, he gave a roll of his eye and continued in a more serious tone of voice, "He might be of royal blood, but he was never formally recognised by either Kings Maric or Cailan…And the Arl of Redcliffe doesn't count," he was quick to add hastily, watching her mouth open for the inevitable counter argument. "Some might see Redcliffe's guardianship as proof of acknowledgement, but there are far more who would have insisted on something in _writing_…Besides, it's not like anyone listens to whatever that old coot says anyway…"

"'Old coot'?" Alyce choked. "You're likening the Arl of Redcliffe to small, aggressive water fowl? You sound like you don't like him."

"Does _any_one?" Aidan made a face at her. "He's always been influential because Redcliffe is one of the largest and most profitable Arlings in Ferelden, not to mention brother to the late Queen. _However_," he continued. "His marriage to an _Orlesian_ - Ferelden sympathiser or not - made a lot of people put him on notice. If the Arlessa had been a pleasant, beautiful woman with glittering wit, unerring grace, style, kindness and well, actually…_likeable, _it might have been different…As it is…Maker, I feel sorry for the woman" He gave a short laugh. "Born with a face that could curdle milk must be _such_ a trial…" He grinned, looking not in the least _sorry _for anyone not born with Cousland-family good looks. As Alyce had as yet to reconcile herself to a fate of being 'left on the bench', she was unable to enter into his sentiments. Even if she did agree the Arlessa was as sour as an unripe lemon…

She had just been about to tell him so, when the sound of weeping caught both their ears. As the crying appeared to be coming from Neria's room, Alyce hurried forward, stepping through the door without knocking. The scene that confronted her, set her teeth grinding…Neria had her arms wrapped around a bed post, using the piece of furniture for support. Breathing laboured, Neria's normally bright amethyst eyes were bloodshot and bruised with dark rings of exhaustion. In contrast, at the other end of the room, the Senior Enchanter stood tall and straight as a river reed, the end of her authoritative nose tilted upwards in chilly hauteur. Her calm demeanour was completely at odds with the younger, supposedly fitter mage. Fists clenching, Alyce stepped up to the both of them. "What the _Fade _is going on here?" she demanded.

Barely sparing a glance at the newcomer, Wynne stated in a cold voice, "This does not concern _you_, Enchanter Amell."

Cheeks burning in anger, Alyce glared at her once-tutor. "Aren't _you_ supposed to be dead?" she snapped.

Neria's hand extended towards Alyce, in a silent plea, forcing the words with difficulty from her mouth… "Alyce…Please, don't…"

"No, _really_." Alyce gave Neria's hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before turning back to the Senior Enchanter. She deliberately mimicked the older woman's stance; the tightly folded arms, the pursed lips and stubbornly set jaw. "I saw you on the top of Fort Drakon." Alyce glared. "For someone with a broken spine you're getting around _awfully_ well. It seems miraculous recoveries aren't solely the domain of the Grey Wardens…"

"Alyce…_please…_" Neria tried again but Alyce only shifted slightly, angling herself so that she completely obscured Neria. Something was definitely not _right _here and if someone didn't say anything about it, Alyce was going to start being very, very…less vague…"What are…you?" Alyce demanded through clenched teeth. "Or, should I say…what have you…_become…_?"

Much to Alyce's surprise, the older mage rolled her eyes ceiling-ward. "I am not an abomination, if that is what you are thinking," she snapped impatiently.

"Ohh…I _see…_" Alyce's acknowledgement dripped, oozed, _slobbered _with sarcasm. "Not an _abomination_…Which explains why you're _here,_ and not say…ooh, slow-cooking on one of those funeral pyres outside the city's gates…You know…one of the many set up for _dead people…_"

Wynne's gaze became hooded as they continued to stare sternly at Neria. "I've already explained," she spoke as though addressing a very small, stupid and hard of hearing child. "The Fade Spirit that has allowed me to co-exist with it is benign and means no harm. If anything, it has enabled me to perform tasks to better serve this country and its people. There can be no nobler purpose…" At this point the Senior Enchanter's words were cut off very abruptly and very rudely by a loud and insistent raspberry that lifted the tendrils of ash brown hair flopping over Alyce's unimpressed forehead.

"Funny thing…" Alyce began, in a deceptively friendly voice. "My aunt once told me…apples and oranges…They look different, taste different…but she said: they both come from trees and they're both as likely to be riddled with worm as any other kind of fruit."

Wynne's chin ascended another notch. "And how does that relate to me, young woman?" she asked coldly.

"Oh, I don't know," Alyce tossed off a shrug. "I guess it's just incredibly lucky you were possessed by a spirit who'd never want to take over…have ideas above its station…" She paused, but the Senior Enchanter continued to glare at her. Just as the older woman appeared to be about to speak again, Alyce interrupted her again. "So what kind of spirit are we talking about here?" she asked. "The Spirit of Old, Quilt-Making Biddies? Ooh, I know, the Spirit of Smug Old Farts? The Spirit of Condescension? How about the Spirit of Pomposity…?" _Oh darn…that sounded better in my head…_Alyce cringed inwardly, even Neria sighed in disappointment at that.

Wynne's eyes narrowed. Drawing her already impossible spine straighter – because Alyce had been darned sure there had been _separation_ and massive blood loss to have made _that _gesture near impossible in a…_non-inhabited_ individual. "I wouldn't expect you to understand…"

"Go suck on a lemon, _Abomination!_" Alyce yelled suddenly, surprising even herself with the vehemence of her exclamation. "You spent years haranguing apprentices about _possession,_ but when it happens to you, it's suddenly alright? What part of the word _hypocrite_ do you not understand?"

"Alyce…" With effort, Neria stepped in front of her, reddened eyes brimming with exhausted tears. "It's not that…We weren't arguing about…" She glanced over at the Senior Enchanter. "It's difficult to _explain_…" Turning back to Alyce she pleaded once more, "please, it's…I'm tired. That's all. Tired. I need to…I need to rest. I need to rest, that's all."

Alyce looked down into Neria's desperate face and relented. "Fine. Alright," she said. Clasping the smaller woman's shoulders, Alyce turned her firmly around. "But not here." Throwing one final, dark look towards Senior Enchanter Wynne, she propelled Neria towards the door. "Just in case zombieness is infectious…"

Once outside, Alyce hailed a guardsman. She handed Neria over to him with a stern instruction to take her to a room on the other side of the wing; and to summon the red-haired companion Alyce remembered being with Neria to attend her. When the soldier and elf had gone some distance away, Aidan Cousland, completely forgotten, sidled up to Alyce. He jabbed an elbow into her side.

"I have said before that you can be scary, haven't I?" He gave a delicate shudder of terror. "'The Spirit of Pomposity'…that's going to give me nightmares for weeks…"

Alyce rubbed at her temples, continuing towards the staircase. Anywhere but here, near the…_Abomination…_"Sorry about…well it's Mage stuff. Not particularly interesting." She grimaced; embarrassed that someone outside the Circle of Mages had had to witness such a scene.

"'Not interesting'," Cousland raised his eyebrows at her. "You _jest_, surely?"

"You were taking me somewhere…?" she reminded him abruptly, steering the conversation – and herself – away from mad Mages and their optional accessories. She wondered whether the First Enchanter – or the _Knight Commander _– knew about Wynne's 'condition'. It would be interesting to find out…

"Oh, um…" He stared at the hall rug. "I uh…I needed your help with something," he said finally. "You'll be happy to…well perhaps 'happy' isn't an appropriate word."

"Any word is fine, Cousland," Alyce sighed. "Just spit it out, already."

"Well, you see…We…We found Ser Ryan…" His hand shot out as her boot missed the next step; steadying her as she almost toppled down the stairs.

"For the Maker's sake, Cousland!" She waved her fists at him. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" She would have run the rest of the way down the stairs, if not for his hand still gripping her arm securely. "Well?" she prompted. "Is he alright? Is he hurt?" she demanded.

"Well it's…" Cousland gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders, unwilling to say anymore in _this _environment. "Just come with me."

-oo-

Cousland led her out of the palace grounds, through the largely untouched noble quarter towards the lower end of Denerim city. Most of the fires had been put out, though pillars of smoke still marked areas where groups of soldiers and mages were attempting to save property and lives. Despite the royal palace and noble estates left mostly intact, the Denerim marketplace, harbour and Chantry had been almost levelled, leading some to claim that either the Maker was truly testing the faith of his followers…or else he had shares in other cities.

Past piles of still-smoking rubble and exhausted soldiers the two of them continued onwards. There were civilians out and about, picking through the remains of their homes, haranguing the work crews of soldiers or simply huddled in small clusters; staring in numb grief at the devastation around them. The Arl of Redcliffe's younger brother had been placed in charge of forming work crews to separate the living from the dead, dispose of the darkspawn carcasses and take stock of the total damage to the city. The remains of the City Guard were also about, searching for survivors and dealing with looters.

Aidan and Alyce passed one of the Bann of Rainesfere's crews sorting through the flattened remains of a warehouse; in search of useable items. A couple of the soldiers paused in their fossicking, watching the Mage and young nobleman pass by. Surrounded by the dirt, and bloodied mud that used to be the Denerim market, the two of them naturally turned heads; the tall, fair-haired Mage in the exotic silver robes and the handsome young man with the flowing black coat.

"They're staring," Alyce hissed out of the corner of her mouth as they passed by a grizzled knight who saluted them. "Cousland, stop enjoying being admired!"

Aidan sighed, his face grim despite his words. "How do you know they're admiring us?" he replied. "They could be contemplating picking our pockets for all we know."

"I don't think this outfit _has _pockets…" Alyce began with a frown, her voice trailing to a mere whisper as the two of them stepped around a heap of broken stone into a small square. There was little here except piles of decomposing darkspawn and charred wood and brick. A single, rain-soaked merchant's banner hung forlornly from a partially collapsed timber frame. Most of the canvas and all of the stall's merchandise had either been burned away or destroyed by the passing of the horde. It was a bleak and soul-crushing scene that was repeated far too many times around the city; soldiers dragging darkspawn corpses into a pit lined with wood salvaged from the crushed buildings around them; the bodies of everything else, including animals, were being taken elsewhere, away from the hideous, misshapen forms of the darkspawn. And in the far corner of the square, was an immobile figure, sitting hunched and unresponding under a perilously leaning awning. As Alyce stared, she realised the figure was cradling a body in his arms that was far too horribly familiar.

Aidan Cousland reached down and gently removed Alyce's fingers from his gauntlet before she cut herself on his armour. He forced his throat to work; even though his vocal chords resisted at every syllable.

"They found him this morning," he managed tolerably, his voice inevitably lacking enthusiasm. "No one's been able to get him to let go of the…" Aidan paused, unwilling to finish the sentence. "The…" his throat closed uncooperatively and he swallowed. "The…_body,_" he told her helplessly. "It's _tainted _and we've not been able to..." He lowered his voice, "He won't let go. Alyce…I'm sorry to ask you to do this, but you're the only one I can think of who can…"

She broke abruptly from his grasp, lurching forward then pausing, unsure…Aidan saw her straighten her shoulders; and with deliberate steps, complete the final distance across the square. Alyce lowered herself in front of Ser Ryan, unaware that he had not been alone. The finely-dressed officer that had been crouching next to the Templar rose silently, crossing the square to meet Aidan, leaving the two Tower inmates alone.

The first thing that Alyce noticed about the Templar was that he was sopping wet, his hair plastered to his skin with rain and blood and darkspawn gore. As she leant forward, he tightened his hold on his charge, flinching when she put her hand over his. She looked down into Geraint's still staring, dead eyes; the blacksmith's lifeless skin consumed by the taint even in death. Brushing her fingers over his face, she closed Geraint's eyes, muttering the same spell she had used in Ostagar for the ones that could not be saved by healing…_The dead should be allowed to sleep…_She looked into Ser Ryan's blank, battle ravaged face. He had been the one who had told her that, aeons ago, it seemed.

"Ryan…" she whispered, unable to find any word in her vocabulary to comfort him.

He shuddered awake, limbs jerking spasmodically in a combination of pent-up grief and cold. His gaze darted restlessly as though attempting to search for the owner of the voice that had called out to him and failing to find it, but searching nonetheless…When finally he spoke, it seemed from a long distance away. "There was an Emissary…" he began. "I tried to stop it…but my head…" Closing his eyes against the image those words conjured was pointless. "Geraint he – he was there. He charged at the Emissary…" Under her hand his own fingers curled into angry claws. The expression in his eyes sent a splinter of fear into her soul. Wherever his head had been was slowly returning, but too much had been left behind.

"He shouldn't have been here…" he rasped. "Why the…? Why was he _here?_ He wasn't a...a soldier. He was just a bloody _blacksmith, _for Andraste's _sake…!_" His voice wholly abandoned him then; the weight of his grief and self-imposed guilt overcoming him. Violent tremors of wretched misery wracked his body, but his bleak eyes remained dry and tearless. Alyce arms went around him instinctively, holding him awkwardly; Geraint's body angled uncomfortably between them. Tucking his head against her shoulder, she wished for a spell to give him back everything he had lost, but she could find nothing for him.

_Mages and magic…they're good for nothing really, damn us all…_

A little distance away, Aidan Cousland kicked holes idly in the mud with his boot toe, a reluctant witness to the Mage's reunion with her Templar. He had become rather fond of Ser Ryan himself; the Templar reminding him of his own brother. The man had also proved himself damned valuable in a fight, but the sight of Alyce comforting the older man wrought emotions in him that were surprisingly…unfriendly.

"Darn…" he muttered under his breath. "The things I do…" _This is supposed to be a good thing, _he reminded himself. _I've been trying to get those two together since I bludgeoned him in Greenfell…_Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he turned, muttering darkly under his breath, "Someone stick an arrow through my head…"

"_Aidan…?_"

Cousland continued to turn…and looked into the face of a ghost. The last person he had expected to see _here._

"Andraste's _snarking_ _fnord…_!" Aidan exclaimed, forgetting where he was and what he was doing completely. "F-F-F-_Fergus_…?"

-oo-


	29. A Call To Home

A/N:…look…sorry…(tries not to look shifty…)

-oo-

**Chapter 29 – A Call to Home**

Golden autumn sunlight streamed through the open window, rippling through the swaying curtains as the breeze sighed across the window pane. The wind carried with it bird song; a pair of robins chattering in avian debate as they dived in amongst the near-naked shrubberies and silent trees. One alighted briefly on the ledge; a single strand of straw clasped firmly in its beak. Tiny onyx eyes peered curiously into the room, before movement at the table inside sent it winging away.

Contemplating the parchment before him, Aidan Cousland did not notice the sunshine – rare on a Ferelden autumn day – or the bird song. Chin resting lightly on the back of his hand, one finger idly flicking the end of his nose; his feet crossed and uncrossed restlessly beneath the table. His attempt at mustering enthusiasm for the task failing him, he took a deep breath…Reaching for the quill, he dipped it into the ink well then tapping it gently on the mouth of the bottle, pressed the nib to the parchment and began to write…_Jon Avery of Hunters Fell…Alec Creighton of Highever Village…_

He refilled the quill, tapped the excess ink on the pot again and continued…_Will Creighton…also of Highever Village…_

Repeating the sequence of fill, tap, write, he began to cover the parchment with names, widely spaced, of those who had come from Highever but would not be returning; including eight men from his own guard. Guiltily, he reminded himself that he did not know most of the names of those who had not been wearing the shield of Cousland House…but he should have.

He did know however, that five of those ten or so people had been farmers. Four others had been tradesmen of some description; the tenth a blacksmith…and how was he supposed to inform their families when he didn't even know who they were? How could he possibly confirm only ten families? What if there had been more? _Maker's moustache…what if the entire remaining male population of Highever Village had perished in Denerim? _

None of them were people who should have gone into battle. They were untrained, inexperienced, with no knowledge of the battlefield or combat. _They should not have been here, dammit!_ If one of the surviving Cousland soldiers hadn't happened to see some of them in Denerim, no one would have known…and there would have been only one civilian to record in the List of the Dead…

Fill. Tap…Aidan touched the quill to the page, uncaring that the ink blotted the parchment, spreading across its surface in a messy pool. _Damn you Gerrie…_His left hand supporting his head, he forced himself to write: _Geraint_ _Tremayne of Greenfell…_As soon as the last 'L' had dropped onto the page, he threw the quill across the table. It spun into the ink stand, splattering the remaining ink across the table cloth. Springing to his feet, he slammed his hands onto the edge of the table, then seized the piece of parchment, balling it up violently and hurling it at the wall opposite. When that did not seem enough, he snatched up his chair, holding it high above his head…

"I wouldn't if I were you…" a wry voice at the door recommended him. "Mother had that upholstery specially commissioned for this room."

Fergus Cousland stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him and leaning his back against it. "Unless of course, you have a death wish and fully _intend _to incur her wrath."

Breathing rapidly, Aidan lowered the chair to the floor, teeth grinding as he attempted to bring his temper back into check. Gripping the chair back hard, he gritted, "How can you stand to be in the same room as me? How can you even _speak_ to me…"

Fergus launched himself away from the door, striding towards his younger sibling with aggressive steps. He paused and raised his hand. Aidan flinched, readying himself for the blow, thinking himself lucky it was his brother's hand and not his sword that would strike him…the hand dropped. Instead of a blow however, Fergus ruffled at Aidan's hair as if he were four years old and not a man of four and twenty.

"You are my _brother_," Fergus told him fiercely with an affectionate shove. "My _blood_. I can no more hate you than I can myself."

Refusing to meet his brother's eye, Aidan gave a humourless huff of laughter. "In that case," he told him. "You must really be loathing yourself right now…" He found his brother's finger waggling in front of his nose in warning.

"Don't make me break that chair and blame it on you Pup, because it's no empty threat. I will…You know Mother will never take your word over mine…"

Aidan looked up then; looking away almost immediately, unable to face the darkness in his brother's eyes, despite the lightness of the other man's tone. "Fergus…"

"So…this _Mage _of yours_…_" Fergus said suddenly, causing Aidan's head to whip upwards, eyebrows drawn downwards in a frown.

"Alyce…" Aidan murmured, giving himself a mental shake. He realised belatedly his brother's manly attempt at a change in subject…away from more depressing topics. Despite his promise to their father to bring Fergus back, Aidan knew the trip home would be a difficult one. It was not something he was looking forward to, feeling an idiot for not planning any further than actually _finding _his brother…Giving Fergus the news of his wife and son's death had been the hardest thing Aidan had ever had to do in his relatively short life.

"Alyce…" Fergus repeated, rolling the name around appreciatively. "Now there's a name…" Aidan found his brother pinning him with a narrow gaze that made him squirm uncomfortably. He'd forgotten how Fergus could do that so easily with only a look or a single, raised eyebrow. "Rather long legs for a magical person…" Fergus concluded, casting his gaze innocently upwards at the chandelier.

"All Mages…are supposed to be short?" Aidan mused out loud, knowing where Fergus was heading with this line of questioning and trying to steer it firmly away.

"Well…" Fergus paused dramatically. "Perhaps _long _isn't the word I'm looking for…"

Aidan sighed, joining his brother in his contemplation of the light fixture. Sooner or later, his brother would reach the inevitable _evaluation_ _of experience…_If Fergus thought he was going to be treated to a description of magical nights of passion with a long-legged Mage, his brother was due to be disappointed… "You're going to say 'shapely' aren't you?" he said in a flat voice.

Fergus turned a wide-eyed, innocent look of surprise at him. "I wasn't!" he exclaimed, then paused…"And…" he said slowly and deliberately, one corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously. "If I did, it would merely have been pure observation and not reflective of any personal opinion on the subject _whatsoever…_"

"Mm…" Aidan folded his arms across his chest, the fingers of one hand drumming his arm unseen by his brother. "They go all the way to the ground," Aidan offered helpfully. "Have you noticed?"

Under his fashionably scant growth of facial hair, Fergus smiled; a genuine smile this time that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes as their father's often did. "I can imagine that would be a rather handy feature…" he agreed. "And…fortuitous too…So, tell me…" (Aidan braced himself) "how did the two of you…meet?

"I assaulted her Templar, she healed Father," Aidan informed his brother simply and without embellishment or emotion.

"Oh. Then we are indebted to her," Fergus murmured, surprised to hear his brother scoff at this notion.

"'Indebted'? I'd like to see you tell her that," Aidan's eyes twinkled in returning mischief. "She'd likely take your head off."

"Well then," Fergus shook his head in wonder. "There must be some way we can repay her service to our family."

"Mm…" Aidan murmured, thinking of his recent conversation with Ser Ryan. The Templar would not accept that Geraint's death had been the fault of anyone but himself, taking the blame as elder sibling. Even after he had admitted to Ser Ryan that it had been he who had planted the seeds of rebellion in the young blacksmith's mind; _he_ who had teased Geraint about the Mage…and the one who had told him he should do something about making himself worthy of Alyce's affection…After all that, Ser Ryan still refused to lay the blame on anyone else but himself. _Duty, _he had called it. _Bloody Templars and their ingrained duty to everything…_

Well, Geraint had proven himself…It just hadn't been – as Aidan had foolishly thought – by showing Alyce his craftsman skills, but by trying to be a warrior…It had been a stupid thing to do, and Aidan felt even more stupid for underestimating the blacksmith's youth or the depth of Geraint's infatuation with the Mage. He only hoped his proposal to the Templar would go some way towards recompense…if that were ever possible…

"Odd though…" Fergus tried again, "that a Mage accompany a Templar merely for a family visit. I would have thought it would be the other way around."

"Oh, uh…Alyce has family in Highever too," Aidan informed his brother, distracted by his own thoughts. "Amell…Mildred Amell is her aunt."

"_Lady _Amell…?" Fergus inquired.

"Lady?" Aidan blinked at him. He hadn't ever considered any other connection between nobility and Mildred Amell. From what his mother had told him the Amells had a minor title, but certainly not important enough to carry any weight in Ferelden. Plus, thinking about Old Batty Amell made the back of his head hurt in remembrance…

"The Amell family are nobility in one of the city states of the Free Marches…fairly important nobility…" Fergus explained in response to Aidan's questioning look. "_Lady_ Mildred Amell however, has been here since the occupation."

That _was _a surprise. "The occupation?" Aidan snorted, rubbing the back of his head. "What did she do, throw pumpkins at the Orlesians until they left?"

Fergus threw a look at his younger brother that was _pure _Eleanor Cousland. "You have absolutely no idea, do you?" Fergus said. "Mildred Amell _fought _alongside Father and Mother against the Orlesian armies of Chevaliers; quite a ferocious dragon she used to be too, apparently. Mother once described Lady Amell as being one of the few who could outstrip her in archery skills. The woman could knock a fly out of the air at a hundred paces and if her eyesight hadn't gone, she would be fighting still. _Legend _has it she learned her archery skills from the Dalish – and they don't teach anyone not of their blood – or clan."

Aidan stared at his brother in disbelief. _That old bat…? A fierce battle maiden…?_ Well, it wasn't too much of a stretch of the imagination considering what a curmudgeon she was, but…and what was it about his brother's statement that made him uneasy? Fergus gave him little time to contemplate the slippery thought, thumping him heartily on the back. "Anyway, brother…" he told him. "Much as I would like to stay to lend aid to Denerim, we can't put off going home forever. There is a great deal I need to…discuss with Father…" Straightening, Fergus turned towards the door. He paused briefly before throwing over his shoulder: "Pack whatever you brought with you and inform the men." Throwing the door open, he added, "We leave for Cousland Castle tomorrow, at first light."

-oo-

The shrunken edges of the leaf glowed still with silver-green luminescence. Alyce pursed her lips at the effect. She'd overdone the preservation spell a little bit, but she supposed that wasn't such a bad thing…Throwing the pendant around her neck, she re-tied the leather string, pausing briefly at the mirror to check her reflection. The pouch of the mabari's ashes now had Geraint's oak leaf sewn onto the front. It didn't look too horrible…a little bit unusual, but she rather liked the look of it. The smile slipped a little from her face; she bit her lip to stop it from trembling. _I don't want to have to carry any more dead with me…_

Turning resolutely from her reflection, she headed for the door. The king – if not completely mobile – was mostly conscious now; the Arl of Redcliffe spending most of his time at the palace with him these days. The Mages that had come from the Tower to fight the horde in Denerim weren't needed as much. The even smaller contingent of Templars that had come with them were keen to return their charges to the Tower before open spaces became too attractive. Alyce and Ser Ryan were expected to leave with them…but Alyce had not had much of a chance to speak with Neria to let her know. Not since her 'disagreement' with Wynne about the difference between 'hosting' and 'possession'. It reminded her too much of the descriptions in Flemeth's spell book…

Neria had been kept busy meeting with the Arl of Redcliffe and the future king; the three of them making plans for the future of Ferelden. It was both weird and wonderful to know her friend had such an important role in rebuilding the country. Neria was even due to take up the mantle of Commander of the Grey, around the same time as Warden Alistair's coronation.

As Alyce strolled along the corridor, her magic staff balanced on her shoulder, she couldn't help smiling to herself. It seemed Neria; lovely, sweet, talented Neria Surana had found her Prince after all…in a most unconventional way perhaps…but if the rumours she had been hearing were true, he'd fallen head over Warden heels in love with the beautiful elf…Shouldering her staff, Alyce stopped at Neria's door, raising her hand to knock. While she celebrated Neria's success, she also couldn't help feel a pang of sadness. The world of Grey Wardens – The Hero of Ferelden, they called her now – had taken her friend far away from her. Duty to the crown and country would take her even further away.

Well, with any luck, Alyce would be allowed to visit her old Tower friend from time to time…

Alyce gave the door a quick rap with her knuckles. "Neria…it's me, Alyce…" she called out. There was a vague, answering noise from inside, so she opened the door and stepped inside…

Neria wasn't alone.

She didn't have any clothes on.

Nor did the redheaded woman she was…_with…_

Turning several shades of scarlet, and then pale green, Alyce lost her grip on the silverite staff. It clattered noisily to the floor, causing two tousled-haired heads to disengage and look towards the source of the interruption. Neria scowled. "Andraste's tits, Alyce…" she began.

"I…I _knocked_," Alyce told her, cycling through twenty shades of red again. She straightened from hastily bending down to pick up her staff, her face now the colour of Neria's friend's hair…whose name Alyce could not remember right now…Lubliana? Juggliane? Titania…? _Oh Maker and Andraste, let me die NOW…_

Completely unperturbed by the interruption, Neria rolled her eyes and sighed. "_Alyce…_"

"I…" Alyce pointed behind her. "The door," she explained. "and…with my hand…" She held up her hand – knuckles facing forward – helpfully. "I…I knocked…you ans…_excuse me!_"

She couldn't turn around fast enough, walking into the door because of course she hadn't had a chance to open it before she attempted to go through it. To pile embarrassment upon chagrin, she opened the door into her face; her skull making a satisfyingly loud thunk as it connected…and then her foot caught the doorframe, pitching her into the corridor to land heavily on all fours with another thud.

"Maker Alyce, are you alright?" she heard Neria's voice call out, but Alyce did not wait to respond, scrambling to her feet and sprinting down the corridor. She flew down the stairs, over tile and stone and past brick, tree and wood, completely unaware of her surroundings until she realised there was a sky overhead and ruins around her. It was only then that she stopped. Doubling over, she tried to catch her breath. Her lungs were burning and her legs felt like jelly, but it was nothing compared to the breadth and depth of mortification of discovering one of her friends in the middle of…_being friendly with another friend_.

"Somebody kill me…somebody kill me…" she muttered under her heaving breath. _If there truly is a god out there, a bolt of lightning would be really handy about now…_

"Amell?"

Still bent over, Alyce turned her head to view the speaker.

"What are you doing here? This is a salvage site, it's dangerous."

There was lumber and assorted building materials; neatly stacked salvaged stone and brick next to half-laden carts, along with tools and a group of sweating workmen. In the unseasonably warm autumn sunshine, most of the men had elected to remove the upper layers of their clothing. Including Ser Ryan and that Bann Whatever-His-Name-Was.

_Toffee…_was all she could think of. _His skin is the colour of toffee…all the way down to his…Oh, look…Templars DO have bellybuttons…_So Jowan was wrong after all. They didn't spring from the forehead of Andraste…fully_…formed…_

"Amell…?" Ser Ryan prompted.

_It was good to know…_

"Are you alright?"

_I really, really need to die right now…_"Um…" she rasped, surprised at her ability to command her voice under the circumstances. "Question…Wh-where can I find the River Drakon?"

Bann Can't-Remember-His-Name-But-Has-Interesting-Chest-Hair pointed to his left. "You were on your way towards it, my lady. Would you like me to…?"

"No! No thanks! I'll just be going now, cheers!" She took off with a whimper, tired legs bowing traitorously beneath her, making her look like a sprinting duck. She had no idea whether she was going in the right direction except…a thin ribbon shone between two charred stone buildings. She skidded down the hill, over pitted cobblestones, completely oblivious to the shouts of warnings as she vaulted over the remains of a loading platform, diving feet first into the River Drakon.

Blessedly frigid water swooshed up her robes as she sank like a stone; the chilly, dank water banishing every thought and burning image in her head. Every thought that is, except one very _important _thought as the water washed over the top of her head; the end of her silverite staff making tiny bubbles as it submerged with her…

_Oh bugger…I can't swim…_

-oo-


	30. Separation

A/N: …Chapter 30! What? When did that happen? Good grief…better start to think of wrapping this up…

-oo-

**Chapter 30 – Separation**

Oiled and sharpened to an air-thin edge, the broadsword made the softest of metallic sighs; the fine red iron hand guard a satisfying clink as it met the mouth of the scabbard. Ser Ryan gathered up the leather straps, winding them neatly around the body of the scabbard before placing the sheathed broadsword into the chest. After folding soft cloth around the sword, he added the leather pouch with the well-worn whetstone and small, flat tin of polishing oil. He closed the chest, locked it and stood back. Next to the chest stood the armour stand, sash removed and packed into another chest. He had not noticed before how the colour had faded. It would not be obvious to anyone else who did not wear the uniform every day, but he had. Tossing the ring of keys into the air, he caught it and turned. _Odd…_he mused to himself. _I always thought this would be more difficult to do…_

A couple of sturdy elven porters were waiting outside in the corridor when he emerged, along with Sers Bran and Hanleigh, the latter for once without his helm. Wordlessly, Ser Ryan bent to pick up his light pack, slinging the strap over his head. He straightened to find the two men bowing in the Chantry salute; gauntlets crossed over their chests.

Ser Ryan smiled, returning the gesture.

"Thank you gentlemen," he told them. "It's been both an honour and a pleasure serving with you…"

"You know how you can repay that honour?" Bran reminded him with a wink. "If that ale is as good as you say…"

"I will be sure to send a barrel or two…" Ser Ryan promised. He clapped Ser Bran on the shoulder. "When I have a spare moment…"

"Or a small fortune…" Ser Hanleigh rolled his eyes at Bran. "Considering how difficult it is to grow good ale-wheat crop on Blighted soil, never mind anything else. I can see the price of everything doubling…tripling…Perhaps we can arrange some kind of exchange though?" he suggested. "Jardim's been making a dwarf-style brew with bloody lichen in it…_lichen…_caught him scraping it off the south wall a few weeks ago…but you know what? It tastes better than the dwarven stuff. Don't know what he puts into it, but it doesn't feel as though your throat's being scraped with burning pumice when you drink it."

Bran's bushy brown eyebrows lifted in disapproval. "Jardim? Isn't he that transfer from Orlais? Didn't know those snail-eating Mages _knew _how to make ale. Thought all they drank was fermented _grape juice…_"

"So did I," Hanleigh admitted with a shrug, "but he spent quite a bit of time in Denerim with a bunch of dwarves, trying to learn _lyrium _casting…Told me Dwarves have one-hundred and fifty Shaperate-recognised ales, stouts and porters, whatever the Fade _they _are…"

"Bloody hell, that's a lot…"

Ser Ryan hung back to walk behind his two colleagues; in part because they were both in full Templar armour and took up quite a bit of space in the corridor as well as being quite happy to allow their conversation to wash over him like a warm breeze. With every step he took, it felt as though his feet were memorising the feel of the stones beneath his boot soles. He would miss the banter and the camaraderie and the scent of armour polish and the constant iron-tang of magic in the air. He would not miss the hours and hours on end of silent, watchful vigil over nervous Mages and certainly _not _Harrowing Chamber duty…

He would miss…

"Oi, Ryan!" He found Bran's gauntleted finger poking him hard in the chest. "Feel like heading down to the kitchens for a last raid on Mistress Trewin's pudding pantry?"

Ser Ryan looked over at the two men and grinned. "Certainly," he told them. "But I promised to look in on the Knight Commander last thing."

"Well you can meet us down there after you're done with the old man," Hanleigh suggested, the two of them heading towards the stairwell entry already. Chuckling to himself, Ser Ryan waved his assurances and continued along the corridor towards the Knight Commander's office. Mrs Trewin's plum pudding…he would definitely miss that too.

-oo-

_Haa-knshk…! _

Liquid sloshed over the rim onto the backs of her hands as Alyce tightened them around the heavy ceramic cup. She contemplated its contents with trepidation, the frequency of her explosive respiratory exhalations meanwhile increasing in frequency. She knew Petra's brew was going to be as foul-tasting as it looked…and it looked as though it had been made from the stewed remains of an unhappy stoat after an unusually desperate meal of bat droppings…But…the end of her nose tickled in warning, barely half a second before…"_Ha-knskk!" _More tonic splashed over the rim of the cup onto the bed clothes. At the dressing table, glass clinked in exasperation. Petra turned, pursing her lips in a fair impersonation of Senior Enchanter Wynne…well, excepting the whole _abomination possession thing…_Alyce added darkly. "Ha-haaa…kshnk!"

"Drink it before it goes cold," Petra commanded her sternly. "It won't do you any good if you just look at it." Jamming her knuckles onto her hips, she glared at Alyce impatiently.

Alyce screwed up her face, pinched the end of her nose and tipped the contents of the potion into her mouth. It was still hot enough to scald her tongue, numbing her taste buds; a good thing, considering how awful it felt travelling down her throat. The gluggy, oily consistency was bad enough without actually having to experience the _taste_...Petra's potions may be Tower-famous for their efficacy, but they were also well-known throughout the Lake Calenhad District for their potent bad taste.

Gagging and huffing, Alyce's face scrunched in sensory agony. "Holy Maferath's balding pate…!" she cringed. "That was dis…gu…gu…" She happened to look up between squints, catching Petra's simmering gaze. "…_good_! What a gorgeously _wonderful _taste!" Alyce's tongue almost tied itself into a permanent knot changing tack halfway. "So unique! So…so…and refreshing! I really…" Her words were cut off abruptly by Petra snatching the mug from her hand with a deep scowl. Turning without a word, the red-haired Mage collected her bottles and potion-making implements and left the room.

"Um, thank you!" Alyce called after her. "Wonderful work…! Love you!"

Just as Alyce uttered the last, Senior Enchanter Torrin walked around the partition. He raised his eyebrows at her curiously. "Bit early in the day for declarations of affection, isn't it?" he commented in his sardonic voice. "I haven't even told you why I'm here."

_Delivering messages again? _Alyce frowned. "Do you just get paid extra for delivering messages, Senior Torrin? Or do you do this out of the goodness of your message-delivering heart?"

"Time and a half during business hours," he replied without skipping a beat. "Double-time outside…"

Alyce stared at him sceptically.

"Or…" Torrin added in a more practical tone of voice, "I just may have the worst luck of anyone in Ferelden with being in the right place at the wrong time…"

"Ah," Alyce grimaced; her taste buds beginning to recover from the scalding, the potion's aftertaste was starting to hit…With a shudder she pulled the blanket more tightly about her head. "So," she cleared her throat and asked. "Whose right place were you wrongly in this time?"

Torrin's eyebrow cocked at her. There were really, few enough people in the Tower to make her question somewhat redundant. _I dunno…_ "Um…The Knight Commander?" she said.

"Oh," Torrin wagged a finger at her. "You're _good…_"

Alyce grimaced. It had actually been a guess. She had been about to say 'The First Enchanter', mainly because it was _always _the First Enchanter…but she had no desire to speak to Irving. She had no desire to speak to Greagoir either, but given a choice between conversing with either man, she would choose jumping head first out of the highest window in the Harrowing Chamber…

It had been a week since the Mages and their corresponding Templars had returned from Denerim. It had been a difficult march; Alyce's sniffle rapidly deteriorating into a bad cold that sapped her energy and made her head feel as though if someone attached a tap to it, she could fill Lake Calenhad with goo…Every muscle ache; every shiver; every stumble along the North Road had reminded her that her unseasonal dip in the River Drakon had been possibly one of the stupidest things she had done to date…If it hadn't been for Ser Ryan diving in after her she would be nothing more than decomposing silt at the bottom of the river, slowly working its way towards the Amaranthine Ocean. She was ashamed to think how childish and melodramatic her actions had been…The River Drakon was far from _pristine_ and considering the number of bodies still needing to be removed from the water, they were both lucky to have come out of the incident untainted and as well as they had. A head cold would have been the least of their problems, remembering the look on Ser Ryan's face…

That had been the worst part of the incident. After he had extracted her from the foul, freezing water, he had yelled at her, calling her an _idiot_, looking as though he would have struck her for her stupidity if there hadn't been an audience of harbour workers or the Bann of Rainesfere as witness. She had felt _small _and stupid and _green_; cringing at the memory even now.

On their return, the two of them had given their report to the First Enchanter and Knight Commander. Alyce's righteous indignation reporting Senior Enchanter Wynne's possession of a Fade Spirit had been nothing; _nothing _to the explosive rage that the Knight Commander had displayed on learning this. Senior Torrin explained later, in a more quiet moment that perhaps part of Greagoir's anger had been because he had had some inkling of Wynne's 'condition'. Because the elder Mage had always been such a staunch anti-possessionist, Greagoir had given her the benefit of his trust…a trust he found to have misplaced.

Irving had known for _sure_, right from the very beginning. He had known the Senior Enchanter since her days as an apprentice. She had always had an affinity with the Fade and the gentler inhabitants of the world beyond the veil. It was this quality that made her such an excellent healer. As the First Enchanter before him had done, Irving had encouraged this talent_. _It had also been one of the reasons why he had taken such an interest in Flemeth's spell book. Wynne, it seemed was not a reason for concern, but an _opportunity_ for study. There had been few Mages like Wynne; too little was known about the subject and he would be failing in his role as First Enchanter if he did not take advantage of this situation to glean knowledge that could benefit _all_ Mages.

Greagoir on the other hand, believed the story of Flemeth to be nothing more than fairytale and childish nonsense, but the spirit possession – benign or not – he took very seriously, even if the idea of a Maleficar enacting the vile practice of _inhabiting _others for so many years undetected was both unbelievable and terrifying. Possession was possession, regardless of the intent of the _possessor_ and the Chantry was quite clear on such things. His take was either removal…or execution, making his preference for the latter as vocal as the thick stone walls of the First Enchanter's office would allow.

The head of the Mages in Ferelden and the most senior Templar in the country had yelled, argued and debated until Alyce was swaying on her feet from exhaustion and a growing inability to breathe. Both Senior Enchanter Torrin and Ser Ryan had intervened on her behalf. No one had noticed that the argument between Mage and Templar had brought them to the early hours of the morning…A brief intermission was called; the two combatants retiring to their own territories to rest, before re-priming their respective siege weapons for another assault on each other.

Since that first battle, both Alyce and Ser Ryan had been called to be questioned about what they knew. There was little light either could shed on the topic, but were raked over smouldering coals anyway…Alyce was tired of being grilled, grateful to be able to use her illness as an excuse to remain undisturbed in her room. She knew it would be but a brief respite…

The straps of the bed creaked as Senior Torrin settled himself on the end of her pile of blankets and borrowed shawls, smoothing the material of his robes over his knees. Alyce regarded him with muted interest, wondering vaguely why he continued to delay delivery of the Knight Commander's message. She wasn't ungrateful. The longer she had to ready herself for another onslaught of questions, the better. Still, Alyce's mind filled with horrible visions of Greagoir's Templars marching across Ferelden, along with the armies of the Divine Herself, to apprehend the Abomination and seek out the Maleficar and Blood Mage Sympathiser.

She gave her head a firm shake. It was beginning to feel…woollier than usual…"You had a message…?" Alyce reminded herself as much as Senior Torrin.

The Senior Enchanter inspected his neatly pared nails. "Greagoir gave no deadline on delivery," he sniffed, showing his annoyance at playing messenger yet again. "And I have no desire to intrude on the _robust discussion _between our illustrious leaders," he added. "When I was given the opportunity to quit today's field of battle, dialogue had moved on to the subject of your Templar. A rather _warm _conversation," Torrin said, looking down the bump of his nose at her. "The Knight Commander holds _you _responsible, I do hope you realise."

Torn between denying Ser Ryan was _her Templar _and defending herself, she chose silence.

"Well," Senior Torrin said abruptly. "I suppose delaying the inevitable would be pointless." He extended his hand towards her. "The marriage was over, bar the shouting in any case…best see I suppose, who will have custody of the children…"

-oo-

Torrin skipped to the side, avoiding the edge of the trailing blanket for perhaps the third time. The soft susurrus as the two of them made their way to the Templar level set his teeth on edge…not that Alyce noticed…She was still waiting for Petra's potion to take effect, feeling…_warm…_and…Why did the corridor curve to the _left? _What was wrong with swinging to the right? What stupid idiot put a statue in the _middle of the wall…_?_ I think I have a fever… _

"People are going to die," Alyce murmured; her voice hushed in dread.

"People are going to die?" Torrin repeated, nonplussed, but willing to play along. "Well _that's _hardly new."

"No," Alyce's fists bunched in the blankets. "Greagoir's going to neutralise the Circle of Mages, isn't he?" she told him worriedly. "Everything we've done to rebuild the Tower after Uldred's revolting Blood Mages will be _destroyed_ again…"

"Hm…" Torrin eyed her beadily. "I'm not too sure to what you refer…"

"Greagoir!" Alyce exclaimed. "He's going to Exalted March all over the Mages in Ferelden! People are going to suffer…and die…and it'll be horrible and smelly…"

"My dear…" Torrin eyed her blanketed head with concern. "The Knight Commander isn't about to tear this country apart for one hedge witch and a Senior Enchanter with multiple personalities." He added confidently, "Greagoir may be guilty of bloody-mindedness at times, but he's not _blood thirsty _enough to put lives at risk by starting a holy war. We just cleaned up in here after all…"

Sniffling, Alyce's head wobbled disturbingly from side to side. "I'm still waiting for Petra's tonic to start working…" she complained. "I think I'm going to need a top up…" She swayed first to the left and then to the right "Oh! Oh Holy Maker!"

"What?" Torrin asked in concern.

She held up her arms. "I'm in _Mage robes…_" she exclaimed, looking mystified by this sudden development. "How did that happen? _When _did that happen? What happened to the Sparkly?" She paused, eyes wide. "Why is there a porcupine in the middle of this battle?"

Torrin directed his gaze to the rural scene depicted on the wall outside the Knight Commander's office. He did not like the glaze in the young Mage's eyes…"It's not a porcupine, my dear," he told her gently. "It's a…good grief…it _does _look like a…_Alyce_, perhaps we should defer your interview with the Knight Commander to another time. I can make your excuses and…"

"But I do so _love _chatting with Greagoir!" Alyce whined. "His lovely brown eyes go all bling! bling! when he gets angry, have you noticed?"

"I believe his eyes are actually blue…" Senior Torrin told her, his alarm growing. "And we should really head back downstairs." _What the blazes did Petra put in her tonic…? And how can I have her make up a batch for me…?_

"No, no, no! Onwards, brave Chantry Soldier! Oh dear…I just walked into the wall…"

Torrin grabbed her shoulders firmly, turning her back towards the way they had come. She giggled at him; a strange sound coming from Alyce Amell. Usually when she laughed it was like a couple of mating nugs…_ha ha ha…snrgg…ha ha ha…_The two of them had barely taken two steps, when the door to the Knight Commander's door opened and a deep voice called out. Torrin found himself with a handful of empty blankets, Alyce having wriggled out from under them to meet the speaker. She waved at him, "Hail! Ser Ryan!"

Ser Ryan looked at Amell oddly, but continued. "I'm glad I had a chance to see you before I…left," he told her.

"Oh?" Alyce stood remarkably rigid in front of the Templar. Balling the blankets into a lump, Torrin contemplated warning Ser Ryan, eventually deciding against dragging her away…for the moment. He supposed it would be fairly harmless if Alyce talked to the Templar…positioning himself ready to intervene if necessary.

"I wanted to say…" Ser Ryan paused, noting how unfocussed her lovely grey eyes appeared to be. "Are you…alright?" he asked.

"You wanted to ask me whether I'm alight?" she asked in a bewildered tone of voice…Had she just slurred her words? Her head suddenly supplied an image of Ser Ryan standing over her, shouting…sodden breeches clinging to lean, muscled legs…Rivulets of dank river water forming tiny tracks down sculptured planes of caramel coloured skin…She blinked rapidly. _I'm going to be ill, aren't I? I am, I know I am…Maker, I wish he'd put some bloody clothes on…_

"No, not 'alight'," he corrected her gently. "I have resigned my commission," he added rather rapidly, "I am leaving the Tower and wished to bid you farewell."

"I'm..." Something _clicked _in Alyce's head. Clarity returned to her brain for one brief, miserable moment. "_What_?" she exclaimed. "You're…but you can't!" _This is all my fault, _she told herself desperately. _If I had been a better healer…if…_"Why?"

Ser Ryan took a deep breath. "My family need me more than the Prophet Andraste," he explained.

"There's a Chantry in Highever…Amaranthine…" Alyce argued. He shook his head.

"I have made my decision," he told her gently, but firmly. He saluted her then, adding, "Be well, Enchanter Amell."

_Be well, Enchanter Amell…What kind of a stupid…?_

Alyce watched him go. He nodded respectfully at Senior Enchanter Torrin as he walked past. It was only then she realised he wasn't in his Templar armour, or even the armour he had been given by Cousland, but..._and where the Fade is _he _anyway? Couldn't even take the time to say goodbye? Just leave…? Like that…? – Bloody nobles…and their draught signatures…No, wait…where am I? _Her brain shifted _sideways_, the skin over her skull fizzing in sudden panic. Ser Ryan was leaving? Is that what he had just told her? But he couldn't have. Could he? That was _impossible_. Templars didn't just leave the Order. They just became…holier with time…didn't they?

_Toffee…_her head told her. _He's going away?_

He was going away…

_Do something…_

"Ryan!" she yelled; her voice overloud in the quiet corridor. He turned, eyebrows raised in enquiry, but she was already stomping towards him, rather unsteadily…Before he had a chance to speak she had grabbed him and kissed him full on the mouth.

_Ha…knshnk!_

And then sneezed on him.

Alyce stared up at him, completely horrified by what she'd done and unable to decide which was worse…kissing a…a _Templar…Kissing _Ser Ryan…or gobbing on him…finding his deep chocolate eyes completely unreadable for any hints to assist her in her decision. After a short while the corners of his mouth twitched upwards – barely. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he set her upright firmly.

"Be safe," he told her and then continued on his way.

She watched him as his wide back disappeared around the curve of the corridor, feeling bereft and incredibly _stupid_…Whimpering, Alyce pressed the palms of her hands to her burning cheeks, "Oh. My. Holy. Maker…" she whispered, startling at the sound of Senior Torrin clearing his throat. She turned to him, face alternately pale and bright crimson. "Did I…?" she began. "Please tell me I didn't…!"

"Well…" Torrin began. "I think there might be room for improvement there," he told her sagely. "I would suggest oranges…Not only can one perfect the correct sucking technique, one gains the benefit of vitamins…"

"Aaaiiieeeeee…."

"My thoughts exactly…"

Snatching a blanket from Senior Torrin's unresisting hands, Alyce threw it over her head and began running down the corridor, her mentor's droll voice calling after her, "Alyce, where are you going?"

She didn't stop. "To throw myself out of the Harrowing Chamber…!" she cried over her shoulder, thinking, _where's the bloody River Drakon when you need it…?_

-oo-


	31. Grey Clouds

A/N: Well _okay, Roxfox1962_, perhaps not quite what you meant with the 'LI', but anything else made my head explode and family objected to the cleanup…even the Baskerville Hounds turned their nose up at the splattered brain…

-oo-

**Chapter 31 – Grey Clouds**

Rain pelted the landscape in icy grey sheets, obliterating the view outside the window. It thundered on the surface of Lake Calenhad; chunks of foreshore crumbling into the agitated waters of the lake. Even the old stone bridge could not be seen, hidden by the almost solid wall of silver grey. A slender hand pulled the window closed, reducing the sound by half, warm breath misting the chilly glass. The pale figure turned into the darkened room, face hidden in gloomy shadow.

"This is my fault…" a soft voice whispered. "If I had been a better healer; a better Mage…"

"You did the best that you could, under the circumstances," a deep voice replied; harshly incongruous to the soft tones of the first. "Head wounds are always difficult to treat, even for the most experienced of Healers."

Another sigh. "If only Petra had been there," she shook her head despondently. "Or you…"

"My dear," the voice said, surprise weighting his words. "You do me great honour by having such faith in me."

She smiled at him. "That's because you know what to do, Irving; you've always known what to do." She stepped away from the window then, crossing the darkened room. Slipping slender pale arms about him, she rested her unruly head into the crook of his neck. "Tell me what to do, Irving…" she whispered.

"What of Ser Ryan? I had thought I detected some affection between the two of you…"

She chuckled at the thought. "He is a Templar," she told him. "You know how those sorts of liaisons are discouraged."

"What of your _own _feelings?" he persisted.

"My own?" she scoffed. "If you must press me for an open confession, then I must tell you that he was nothing more than a friend," she told him simply, adding a shrug. "I am glad to be rid of him. He was an _obstacle_…always watching…always there…creepy…"

He laughed; a deep, indulgent chortle as he ran his fingers along the bare skin of her arms. "That _is _what a Templar does," he reminded her. "Watching Mages is part of…" He didn't get to finish his sentence. Freeing an arm, she reached up, entwining fingers through strands of iron-grey. She forced his head downwards; lips parting in invitation…as skin touched skin, he _screamed_…

The cold ground hit him; impact and the taste of blood shaking him roughly out of his dream. It took several seconds until the disorientation of unfamiliar smells and the darkness dissipated. Righting himself, he propped his back against the bed frame, wiping at his bottom lip with his hand. _Just a dream…_he told himself, though the horror he felt at his subconscious inserting _the First Enchanter _into the dream made him shudder. He knew for a fact that Amell didn't even _like _the old man…Leaning elbows on his knees he pushed the hair from his face, realising he'd been sweating, even in this cold, dismal weather. With an unhappy grunt he began crawling back into bed when he became aware of a sound; barely audible above the rustle of the trees and the drumming of rain on the roof.

Ser Ryan disentangled his legs from the blanket he'd dragged down with him in his fall. Locating the shirt he'd discarded earlier, he threw it over his head, barking his shins on a piece of furniture as he groped his way in the dark. He managed to locate the door without further incident, standing outside in the narrow hall listening intently. It sounded like someone crying, deliberately muffled so that no one would hear.

He followed the noise downstairs, tracing it to a huddled shape by the fire.

"Morwenna…?" he called softly. The blanketed figure stiffened. Shaking hands swiped hastily at her face, pulling the blanket tightly around herself. Ryan walked to the fireplace, extracted a log from the meagre pile and attempted to coax the fire back into life. "It's cold down here," he told her. "Why aren't you upstairs with the girls?" He turned then, the growing flames throwing the planes of her face into sharp relief. He had thought her thin before, but she looked even more gaunt and haunted in the stingy light of the fire.

"I didn't want to disturb them," she explained quietly. Staring into the stubborn glow of the embers, her hands tightened in the blankets. She bit her lip suddenly, a single fat tear escaping an eye. It made it as far as her cheek before she dashed it away with the edge of the blanket. "You should go back to bed," she told him with a sniff. "You can't afford to be tired, just to keep me company."

He moved closer, crouching by her side. "Morwenna," he began. "You know you can talk to me."

One corner of her mouth jerked upwards. She shook her head. "It's alright, Ryan," she told him. "You don't need to do this. You have more important…"

"Mama?"

Both adults turned at the tiny voice. A ruffle-haired figure in a thin nightdress stood on the bottom of the narrow stairwell, an even smaller one behind, two dark eyes peeking worriedly over the taller girl's shoulder. Morwenna sighed, fingers kneading her forehead. "Bonnie…" she began…Ser Ryan stood first, heading towards them.

"It's okay," he smiled gently at them. "I'll put them back to…" He got no closer than a metre away when the older of the two girls gave a terrified shriek, dashing under his outstretched arm to her mother's side. Having snatched at her sister's nightdress, the younger girl lost her footing on the bottom stair and pitched chin first onto the floor. Ryan was quick to pick Myfanwy up, setting her onto her feet. She stared at him wide-eyed for half a minute, shaking in fear…and then her jaw dropped and she began to howl.

In a panic, Morwenna threw the blanket over her daughter, pulling her close, grimacing at the noise, but it was too late. There was a crash upstairs, followed by incoherent yelling.

Ryan felt a hand prod his back firmly. "_Go…_" Morwenna told him urgently. "Mother needs you more than I do. Just go, Ryan." He didn't argue, starting his way up the stairs. He reached the top just as his father stumbled out of his parent's room onto the landing.

"What…what's going on?" Ryan found rough hands seize him by the shirt. Taken by surprise, he found himself falling hard against the wall. "Where is my son?" Ser Gavin demanded. "Where did they take him? Where is he?"

Catching another sound, Ser Ryan looked up. His mother stood in the doorway to their room, silent and haggard. Staring at the floorboards; her tired eyes refused to meet his own. Placing his hands onto his father's shoulders, Ryan pushed his father away. It took hardly any effort to do so; his father already turning, shambling in confusion towards the stairwell. Ryan deftly stepped between his father and a broken neck as Ser Gavin clutched at the cloth of Ryan's shirt.

"Excuse me…excuse me Ser…" his father stared unfocussed up at him. "H-have you seen my son? Have you seen any of my sons…Bryant…I need to speak to Bryant. It's important. I have to speak to him."

At the mention of his older, deceased brother's name, Ser Ryan stiffened. Grasping his father's shoulders, he told him, "Father. It's Ryan. I'm your son."

"Ryan…" his father repeated in a baffled voice. "No…No, I don't know the name. Bryant. My son's name is _Bryant. _Have you seen him?"

Ser Ryan looked down at his father. Heartbreak and the urge to comfort his parent battled within his breast. _Did you think this was going to be easy…?_ The voice inside his head sneered at him. "It's…" he began. "No," he told his father eventually. "I'm sorry, I haven't seen Bryant. Not for a while."

"Oh, you know him then? Did the two of you serve together?"

Steering his father back towards the bedroom, Ser Ryan continued to converse in pretend sentences with him. As the two of them passed by his mother, she shrank back, still refusing to look at him. Ryan led his father back to the bed, finding resistance when he tried to make him get under the covers, finding a knobbly finger poke him rather hard in the midriff. "Train together did you?" he asked.

"No," Ryan replied. "He…Bryant was a bit older than I…"

"Ah," his father nodded knowingly. "Looked up to him, eh? Templar he was. Did I mention? A soldier of Andraste. A fine lad…"

Ryan finally managed to set his father down, helping him lift his legs onto the bed and drawing the blankets over him. "You remind me a little of him," his father told him, patting at the folds of bedclothes.

"Thank you f…Ser Gavin," Ryan smiled at him, kneeling by the bed. "You do me great honour."

His father chuckled to himself, eyes already closing. Ryan stood watching his father a little longer until Ser Gavin's breathing slowed and he began to snore softly. Turning, he walked towards the door. "Do you want me to…" he began to ask his mother, when she turned abruptly away, heading downstairs without a word to him, passing her daughter and her two granddaughters silently. Ryan began to follow, but Morwenna stopped him with an outstretched hand. At her side, Bonnie and Myfanwy continued to watch him fearfully, still attempting to hide from him under their mother's skirt.

"You should go to sleep, Ryan," Morwenna told him. "There's not a lot you can do here now." Tugging her daughters after her, she turned down the opposite end of the hall, into the narrow, partitioned-off space that was the room she shared with her two young daughters. Left on his own, he had no choice but to head back to his own room at the back of the house, leaning his back against the door once he had closed it and squeezing his eyes closed. He exhaled a long, drawn-out breath.

_Well…I've been back in Greenfell barely two days_, he thought dismally…_My sister resents me, my nieces are terrified of me…My mother hates me and my father doesn't even know I exist…_It wasn't a good start.

Tripping his way back to the bed, he bumped into the same piece of furniture that he had knocked his shins into the first time. Finally locating his bed, he practically fell into it, taking several minutes to unravel his sheets and blankets in order to cover himself adequately. That done, he settled himself against the pillow; one arm thrown across his forehead. He wondered for the briefest moment whether it would have been better if he had just stayed in the Order, dismissing the thought as pure selfishness on his part. What did he expect? Of course his mother would hold him responsible for leading his younger brother to his death. All his father knew was the existence of one son, from memories of a time when he was able to _make_ memories and his sister…There was still no word of his brother-in-law having survived Ostagar…and Bonnie and Myfanwy had met their uncle for their first time in their lives just yesterday.

_Time…_All he needed was time…He reminded himself that he hadn't come back to be liked. He had come back to fulfil responsibilities that he'd been shirking for far too long, though…Sighing in the dark, Ryan closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax muscle by muscle. _It would be nice…sometime…if they did…_

_Drip._

His eyes sprang open.

_Drip!_ _Splash…_

Bolting upright, he fumbled about, trying to locate the lamp that he should have grabbed in the first instance, finding it only when his questing hands knocked it off the narrow bedside table. It fell to the floor with a crash. Sitting in silent panic, he waited for the inevitable sounds showing that the noise had woken his father again, but after a few minutes all he could hear was the rain battering the shingles above his head. Sitting in the pitch blackness Ser Ryan contemplated his options. He could get up, hope that he didn't cut himself on the broken lamp glass and attempt to climb onto the roof _in the middle of a storm_, but was it worth clambering onto a slippery roof for just the one drip?

Swinging his legs back onto the bed, he moved his pillow and himself closer to the wall. He'd just settled down again when…_dripp!_ _Splorch…splitter splatter…_water rolled off the top of his head and down the bridge of his nose; cold and gritty. The drip had either moved or they were breeding up there. Casting his gaze uselessly upwards, he gave the leaky roof a look darker than the room itself, as another stream of chilly water splashed onto his shoulder. It was definitely not a good start at all_…_

-oo-

_Rain…again…_Day in, day out it had been the same cold, grey drizzle. It wasn't proper rain. Proper rain had heavy drops of water weighty enough to be carried sideways by the wind, overflowing the gutters and spilling out in ragged waterfalls over the windows. Proper rain was near opaque and hungry; eating the landscape in giant chunks. Proper rain had a voice; thunderous and lumbering and persistent. This…_this _was mere extra moisture in the air, clinging nervously to anything it came into contact with. It was soft, insubstantial and tentative, as though it would rather not be precipitation needing to fall great distances from cloud to ground. It might get _hurt_.

Alyce stared out of the window, trying to work out a way of saying how _tired_ of it she was.

Blowing hot air onto the glass, she wrote: _I am bored…_in runic symbols. She paused, contemplating her handiwork. Casting a quick look over her shoulder, she wiped her sleeve across the glass, breathed on it again and began to write, _Irving has a great fat ars…_

"I thought you were helping Owain in the stockroom."

She jumped, knocking her head against the window frame.

"I wasn't doing anything!" she said automatically. Senior Torrin's eyes narrowed at her, head angled speculatively.

"How long do you intend to mope, my dear?" he asked. "Surely you aren't _that _heartbroken. The last time I looked there were at least _two _passably good looking males of your age in this Tower. I'm _sure _they would be quite willing for a casual dalliance or two."

Alyce looked horrified at the suggestion. "Owain and his Tranquil had already completed their inventory by the time I'd gotten down there," she explained carefully adding with a bit of spice; "And I am not moping nor heartbroken…"

"Glad to hear it," Torrin nodded approvingly. "Because it's about time we got some actual work out of you. Now," he began briskly. "Where were you in Niall's translation before you were sent on your jaunt about the countryside?"

She threw her hands up in the air. "What is the point in continuing with that?" she demanded, stomping about the room loudly with her boots. "We know the Senior Enchanter is an Abomination…"

"_Possessed by a Fade Spirit…"_

"…so there's really nothing left but keep the torches handy, the pitchforks by the door and the mob on standby, right?"

Torrin folded his arms at her. He hadn't needed to, but there was definitely a hint of foot-tappy about him. She was smart enough to be able to recognise defeat when it stepped up and slapped a wet fish in her face. Shoulders slumping, Alyce began to trudge resentfully from the room. "Oh, and I believe there is a message for you," he added thoughtfully.

She turned back. "Really? Where is it?"

Above half-lidded eyes, a single dark eyebrow curved disapprovingly. "Do I _look _like your personal messenger, Enchanter Amell?" he inquired. "Messages for mere Mages can be picked up from the library…and once you _have _your message in hand, young lady I want you in that study with Niall's translations. Do I make myself clear?"

Alyce attempted to glare at him; an attempt which failed rather embarrassingly. Senior Enchanter Torrin had perfected his stern, authoritative look over the course of four decades, trialling his technique on hapless apprentices and refining it on Templars who had as yet to learn not to make eye-contact with Mages. She was the first to look away; slightly shamefaced as though she regretted trying to make the attempt in the first place. Boots shuffling across the tiled floor, she turned again and made her way wordlessly towards the exit.

Senior Torrin waited a few seconds, listening for the unmistakeable click of the door closing fast, then went to the window. He peered down…it was a very, _very_ long drop from the top of the Harrowing Chamber to the ground. An unlucky Mage might be carried by the wind towards the lake…a lucky one would hit the ground and die instantly. Regardless…he pulled the window closed firmly with a shudder…he would rather not have to extract Amell from either environment. Turning resolutely from the window, he too made his way towards the Harrowing Chamber exit. The room had been cleaned from top to bottom, but the scent of death and disappointment lingered persistently in the air and he was happy to leave it behind him.

He spotted Amell's slender profile just before she entered the stairwell, pausing to let her leave completely, wondering briefly if he should follow after all to ensure she didn't do anything foolish like 'accidentally' trip down the stairs…Rolling his eyes at the melodrama unfolding in his head, he continued on. A seed of a thought had been planted by Irving the last time he'd seen the First Enchanter – for once the Knight Commander agreeing (mostly because it would be _convenient_) - and Torrin seriously began contemplating throwing a bit of water and sunshine onto the idea. Maker knew all of them could do with a bit of lightness around these morbidly depressing walls. The senior-most representatives of their respective Orders were the only ones enjoying themselves these days; arguing back and forth _still_ over Wynne. That was unlikely to last; both men having such short attention spans…

He opened the door to the stairwell, his ears catching an odd _bumping _noise, accompanied by an echoing voice…"Ow…ow…bloody _ow…damn blasted, stupid, long Mage robes…_"

Another roll of his eyes, he increased his pace, healing spell at the ready, muttering…"Amell, Amell, Amell…"

-oo-


	32. Questions and Answers

A/N: (hands out bottles of extra-concentrated brain bleach). Sorry about the beginning of the last chapter folks. I unashamedly dedicate it to _Roxfox1962_…who 'inspired' the (ahem) scene between Alyce and Irving…Oh and by the way, have I mentioned, I really, really _like _Ovaltine…? The Original Recipe…Ovaltine sandwiches anyone? Mm…

This chapter is dedicated to my own, real-life Ser Ryan...Note to self: Husbands and _ladders _do not mix…so hang in there, Fluffy…(no pun intended).

-oo-

**Chapter 32 – Questions and Answers**

"Can I ask you a question?"

…_scrrnchhh…Giggle…_

The sound of metal clashing in battle echoed through the courtyard, carried by the thin autumn air. In the centre of the sparring square Aidan Cousland shifted his grip on his sword. An awkwardly deflected blow earlier was beginning to make its damage known by a growing ache in his right arm. _Maker_, _I'm done for…_he thought grimly…the man he was fighting might be more than Fergus' age, but he was _fast_…and a great deal stronger…

"Certainly my lord," Ser Ryan nodded at him, adjusting the hold on his shield.

The two men circled each other, boots sinking in the new mud in the sparring square. It had rained heavily overnight and the steward had ordered some sawdust put down, but it wasn't making much of a difference with the amount of moving around the two of them were doing. _Well…if I'm going to fail, might as well make it as spectacular as I can…_Aidan squelched as he lunged; Ser Ryan parrying easily; the larger, older man stepping forward with the weight of his body behind his longsword. Aidan slid backwards several centimetres before he could regain control of his feet and spring away.

_Giggle…_

Cousland's eyes flicked for the briefest moment to the _gaggle _of gawping maidservants hanging over the fence post. It was for a second; barely that, but enough of a gap in his attention for Ser Ryan to strike forward, knocking the sword from out of his aching hand and slamming into his chest with the shield. In the slimy mud, Aidan lost his footing completely, falling unceremoniously onto his behind with an embarrassingly soggy splash.

Lowering his sword, Ser Ryan offered his hand to the young lord. Aidan considered the proffered hand with a shake of his head, exasperated at himself. His defeat had hardly been the spectacular loss that he'd been hoping for, accepting the offer of assistance with a small, self-deprecating laugh. In the days before the Blight, he would have sparred with Fergus and completely trounced his older brother. However, even though Fergus had offered to continue sparring with him, Aidan preferred Ser Ryan. Not only was the man left-handed, which made him an interesting opponent, he was a lot tougher, and a great deal more _accessible;_ Fergus busy these days catching up with the duties he had missed out while he was at Ostagar and beyond.

After the…_trouble _with the Arl of Amaranthine his older brother had thrown himself into a more active role helping his father manage the Teyrnir. Aidan had even heard it mentioned that Fergus would be given the Arling; seeing as Howe had been nicely and conveniently despatched by the Hero of Ferelden pre-Archdemon. Although Aidan had wished the Grey Wardens had left Rendon Howe intact…mostly because he and Fergus were disappointed they wouldn't have a chance to play lucky wishbone with the old Arl themselves…

_Tee hee…_

Cousland sighed in annoyance. The only drawback partnering Ser Ryan was that the other man tended to draw a bit too much attention in the sparring yard. Even his _mother _had come down to find out what all the fuss was about. He noticed soon after that the servants' rosters had been rearranged so that the older, less interested servants found themselves in the general vicinity of the sparring sessions between the young lord and his new lieutenant. Ever resourceful however, Ser Ryan's team of admirers had found a way to wander by 'accident' near the sparring yard anyway…And the man was – well, not _oblivious _exactly_ – unconcerned_ by all the attention. If it had been directed at _him, _he would have milked it for all it was worth, putting on as flashy a performance as he could. Ser Ryan simply channelled all his energies to focus on the task at hand. If that was part of the man's Templar training, Aidan was even more grateful to have him around.

Back on his feet, Aidan inspected the damage. He'd have a grand old time cleaning the mud out of his mail shirt. He planned to take his time at it, hopefully missing one of his mother's 'review' sessions…Looking at the clogged mail…hm, he'd probably need to work at it with a _toothpick_, slowly and painstakingly…

"You're favouring your right wrist," Ser Ryan commented with a concerned frown. "Have you injured yourself, my lord?"

As he'd been flexing said body part at the time, Aidan had no excuse. "Minor sprain maybe," he responded truthfully – he had too much respect for Ser Ryan to try and lie in any case – "You wield a shield as though it were your weapon of choice."

Ser Ryan shot him a small smile. "Actually…" he admitted, "it's the weapon that I've always been weakest at."

Aidan snorted. "Could have fooled me…"

"I was about to add," Ser Ryan added gently. "That because shield work was my weakest ability, I spent more of my practice time with the shield."

Cousland weighed the man's words in his head. He was sure they were not meant to censure. Clearly Ser Ryan had been used to teaching younger, less experienced men than he…initiates perhaps? Regardless, he refused the automatic urge to stuff his hands in his pockets, draw an embarrassed circle in the mud with the toe of his boot or look otherwise as guilty as someone caught with rhubarb and apple pie smeared over their face.

"You were about to ask a question, my lord?" Ser Ryan reminded him. "Before I so rudely interrupted you."

"Before you presented me with my sorry arse on a gilt platter, you mean?" Aidan asked with a sardonic curve of an eyebrow. He stepped back, flipping his longsword high into the air – a manoeuvre that would have provoked a sound chastising if he'd been with Fergus – snatching it out of the air as it spun low enough, the blade whistling close by Ser Ryan's cheek. Most men would have flinched. Ser Ryan only grinned at him. "Anyway, just wanted to ask," Aidan said, swinging the sword upwards to rest the flat of the blade on his shoulder. "What made you want to join the Order in the first place? To train as a Templar that is, and…you know, take vows of…not…doing…_it_."

As Ser Ryan contemplated his question, Aidan rolled internal eyes. He shouldn't find it so difficult, but saying the 's' word in the presence of a member of the Chantry – former or not – gave him brain blockage. For a while too, it looked as though the ex-Templar was reluctant to give a reply, then, "I…" Ser Ryan began thoughtfully, staring at his muddy boots, "…suffered a disappointment."

"A disappointment?" Aidan repeated, curiosity growing.

"There was a girl," Ser Ryan added.

"Oh…" Aidan swung his shield onto his free shoulder, the two of them making for the exit. "A _girl…_Isn't there always?"

"Is there?" Ser Ryan asked, sliding a look towards Cousland.

"Well…unless there's a _boy…_or a goat," Aidan stated thoughtfully, adding under his breath, "Or a very surprised snapping turtle…"

"Just a girl," Ryan told him, failing to conceal an amused grin. "I don't think there are any snapping turtles in Greenfell…"

"Ah…" Having exited the sparring square, Aidan casually tossed his shield onto the arms rack. It bounced off, landing in the sawdust. Ser Ryan bent down and picked it up, brushing off the sawdust and wood shavings and hanging it carefully onto the rack. Taking the hint, Aidan was a bit more conscientious in storing his sword. "Well then," he began unbuckling his greaves and gauntlets. "'Just a girl'…Is that it? Or is this the point where you tell me to mind my own beeswax?"

Ser Ryan shook his head. "It happened so long ago now…" he said in a quiet voice. He looked up with a grin. "She had red hair…and a temper to match."

"Of course, as expected," Aidan said as knowledgeably as he could. "I prefer blondes myself," he added before he could stop himself. "Tall ones…um…" He fixed his gaze onto the armour rack, the image of Alyce Amell hitting him several times with bolts of lightning causing him to pause…and _reflect _on his life…Not because the tall blonde he'd had in mind had _been _Alyce, but…well, okay, it _had, _but he wasn't about to admit it to Ser Ryan. Not while the man still had a sword in his hand…but he was feeling reckless…

"But you know…" Cousland cast his gaze upwards, "nothing at _all_ like Amell…" He slid a surreptitious glance towards Ser Ryan, but the other man had turned away to store his sword on the weapons rack, thus depriving Aidan of seeing the result of his experiment.

_Still_…"I have to admit though…" Aidan mentioned oh-so-casually. "She's blonde. And tall. Very tall. In fact, she's probably the tallest girl I've come across. They must feed them well at the Tower of Mages."

Ser Ryan turned. Slowly.

"You…" he began with a frown, but stopped. "My apologies, my lord. It is not my place to pry."

_Oh…I see…_"You think _I _had feelings for Alyce Amell?" Aidan said in a scathing tone of voice. "A _mage_?" Had there been a flash of anger there? _Well, let's explore that idea shall we?_ "I am a _Cousland,_ Ser Ryan. A very important bloodline, if you don't already know what that means. We can not afford to introduce magic into that bloodline." It had been true enough. He'd already been treated to _that _lecture by both his parents _and _his older brother. "If Fergus does not marry again, it will be up to me to produce a viable heir…or two…" He paused to hang his loosened armour over its stand. "One only has to look at the Arl of Redcliffe," Aidan added thoughtfully. "If not for Teagan Guerrin, the line would have died out completely…"

"Yes…" Ser Ryan said in his quiet, still voice. "I understand the Arl's young son will be admitted into the Circle in the spring."

"Really? He won't be trained at home?" Aidan asked, with genuine surprise. An _Arl's son…_He knew that Eamon's boy could not, under Chantry law, inherit the Arling or any title for that matter – which was the hotly debated subject at this season's Landsmeet – but Redcliffe was powerful. Aidan would have thought Arl Eamon would have used his influence to sway the Grand Cleric…"He has to be sent to the Tower?"

"He can be trained at home, yes," Ser Ryan admitted. "But it would be too risky. The Arl's son I understand; has already had dealings with a demon. He would need careful watching by more than one Mage and a small roster of Templars that might become too familiar with him. Not to mention that he will not have the company of other Mages if he remained at home. His mother might object, but the benefits for Connor Guerrin will far outweigh her objections."

"Huh…" Aidan scoffed, noting subconsciously that this was the longest sentence he had managed to squeeze out of the ex-Templar since he had met the man. He was impressed – by both the long sentence as well as Ser Ryan's ability to deflect questions about himself. "Well…I can see the Templars might have to drag the boy kicking and screaming from the Arlessa's arms…" he told Ser Ryan. "Or perhaps I should say 'drag the boy from the Arlessa's kicking and screaming…whatever'." Personally, Aidan doubted whether anyone would care what the Arlessa thought…or did…as long as she didn't endanger Ferelden. Or curdle every jug of milk in the country into cheese with her sour than sour expressions…

"_Any_way…" Aidan refused to be side-tracked. "Your tantrum-prone redhead…Weren't we discussing that?"

The ex-Templar stared into the distance, attempting to form a picture in his head of the woman that had broken his heart all those years ago, finding it difficult with the space of time in between blurring the memory. As well, his brain kept twisting the memory, elongating the picture, sharpening the curves and adding much lighter, spikier hair on top. He frowned, not too sure why his head kept reminding himself of her. Amell had been a respected colleague. Possibly a friend; she had certainly supported him as a friend…as Sers Bran or Hanleigh would have...

_She kissed you…_a small voice in his head reminded him, causing his frown to deepen. He wasn't too sure what to make of that.

The sound of a throat clearing brought Ser Ryan back to the present with a jolt. "I…In the end," Ser Ryan said, trying to remember where the conversation had been heading. "I enjoyed the training and the discipline involved. It gave me purpose."

"And the whole, you know; vow-thing…?" Aidan persisted.

Ser Ryan chuckled. "Swearing a vow of chastity seemed a natural extension of my dedication to The Prophet Andraste," he explained. "My promise of fidelity to Her."

Cousland ducked his head to hide the grimace of distaste he felt at the ex-Templar's words. When he re-emerged, slightly more recovered, he asked, "So, it's like a…a marriage?"

"Perhaps," Ser Ryan replied. "Though I wouldn't put it quite that way."

_No kidding…_Aidan grimaced more visibly this time. "You're not a Templar any more," he pointed out. "So those vows of…whatever…don't hold anymore." _Please say yes…_

Ser Ryan laughed. "I may have resigned my commission from the Order," the ex-Templar said with a shake of his head. "But my devotion to the Prophet Andraste has not wavered. I remain Hers to command."

_We shall see…_Cousland thought darkly. "Well," he added out loud, planting his fists onto his hips. "Just remember you swore an oath of _loyalty_ to my father," he said sternly. _I see I'm going to have to work on this one…_"You Ser, are a soldier of Highever now. Don't forget that."

The ex-Templar's response was in a salute. "Yes, my lord…I have not."

-oo-

Resting her chin on the backs of her hands, Alyce stared across the desk, completely unable to read Niall's neat handwriting. A flick of her eyes downwards gave a view of foggy spikes and curls…her gaze straying yet again from the inky mountains and valleys to the square piece of parchment just out of reach. On top of it lay a thicker piece of parchment, about quarter size, gilt edged. She sighed. _What to do…?_

Considering her recent run-in with the First Enchanter, Alyce did not like her chances asking Irving permission to leave the Tower…again. She doubted whether Neria's pleas for her to come would carry any weight with either the First Enchanter or the Knight Commander. Hero of Ferelden or not, now that the Blight was over, it was business as usual before all that messy mucking about with darkspawn and infected high dragons and Blood Mages…It had been such a short time since the Archdemon had been vanquished; the darkspawn sent back to the Deep Roads beneath the Dwarven cities and yet…whispers; rumours about the _upstart _elven Mage were steadily growing. People did not like an _elf _rising to prominence, despite the legend of Garahel defeating the fourth Blight. Nor did they like the idea of a Mage being so close to the throne.

Arl Eamon's recent appointment as Chancellor to the king also caused comment. His connection to magic and Mages via his son and stories of weird goings-on in Redcliffe during the Blight did not help matters. The Arl may have been uncle to the late King Cailan, but that was considered ancient history now. The fact that his armies were not at Ostagar to support his nephew gave fuel for conspiracy theories about a secret war between the anti-Orlesian Loghain Mac Tir and the pro-Orlesian Arl of Redcliffe, with the hapless young Cailan the unwitting victim of a political tug-of-war.

To be honest, Alyce couldn't care less. Ferelden nobles had always squabbled amongst each other. It was bred into every line existing or extinct in every Ferelden with noble ties long before the great Calenhad had united them into one, single country. That's what all the historical texts had told her anyway. Nor did it make any difference in her life. Nothing would change the fact that she was a Mage…stuck in a stone tower in the middle of a freezing cold lake. She'd had her adventure. She'd left the tower once…twice and that would be it, she supposed, though…

Straightening, she stretched across the table for the two pieces of parchment, knocking quills flying and sending sheets of Niall's carefully sorted notes cascading to the floor.

_Dear Alyce,_ the letter had begun. _I enclose an invitation to the King's coronation. _Alyce picked up the oblong, gold-edged card between forefinger and thumb. _Exhibit A,_ she thought wryly.

Neria's letter went on to describe various goings on at the Royal Palace (Lord Tilbrook caught in Lady Tilbrook's closet with three male servants and shock, horror! The palace kitchens had mysteriously run out of an entire month's supply of _cheese, _of all things), in Denerim, shopping expeditions for shoes (there are _shops _in Denerim now?), to her upcoming post in Vigil's Keep as Warden Commander…_the nobles aren't happy, Lyce…_Neria had written. _I may have helped to save their sorry bubble-butts from the Archdemon, but no one wants an _E. L. F_ in charge…Especially one that can freeze said bubble-butts with a single word. Not completely unexpected really, _Neria admitted with a drawing of a smiling face with demon horns. _Apart from you and Bann Teagan, no one's actually said 'thank you'. _

_I mean, is that asking too much? Am I being vain? It's not like I've asked anyone to clean my taint-stained boots with a moistened appendage of their choice…_Alyce smiled. She could see Neria rolling her eyes in her head. _A simple 'gee, thanks for saving the country' would be a rather nice change from 'Oi, elf! Fetch me my slippers and be quick about it!' Nah…It's probably me being overly demanding…oops, have to cut this short. I just blew a hole in the fireplace…silly, silly me and my stray fireballs. _A smudge of soot here, along with some sort of sticky black melty thing smeared across the parchment…_PS, please do try and come to the coronation. I think the old groaner's been invited along with ice-face Greagoir…maybe you can stow away in a set of Templar's armour? Love, Neria._

Alyce had frowned at the word 'Templar'. Neria had underlined it several times as though she was attempting to make some kind of point. Shrugging, Alyce slumped in her chair, balancing Neria's letter on her head. She supposed it was about time she stopped being embarrassed about that little 'episode' in the palace. She just didn't know whether she could look at her old Tower friend ever again and _not _think about grapefruit…

_Maybe I'll get lucky and some overenthusiastic Templar will mistake me for an abomination…_She thought with a loud sigh. It was at that point that the door to the study opened. Senior Torrin stepped inside, waving a piece of parchment of his own above his head.

"Ah-ha!" he announced triumphantly. "I have it!"

Alyce eyed him in disgruntlement, knowing his chirpiness had been carefully engineered in pitch and delivery to grate on her nerves. "Some sort of hideously incurable disease?" she asked unenthusiastically, but hopefully.

Senior Torrin sighed at her. "Now, now Enchanter Amell. Re-sheathe your claws, there's a good kitty. I have in my hand, signed permission for you to take your next, _bold_ step into the wonderful world of Magehood."

"Being…?" Alyce asked.

Torrin did not answer straight away; his attention arrested by the invitation to the coronation. "Oh, you got one of these too?" he murmured. "Best let Irving know so that he can forget to tell the Knight Commander…He's aiming for an inconvenient imbalance between Mages and Templars in the Tower delegation. I have a feeling he has bets on to see how quickly the Grand Cleric's chronic apoplexy takes a turn for the worst…"

"Bets…?" Alyce said faintly, finding it difficult keeping up with her mentor's conversation.

"Yes. Bets," Torrin confirmed. "What else do we Mages have to do to amuse ourselves besides harassing Templars and plotting to take over the world? Honestly Alyce, where _has _your head gone?"

"Uh…" she attempted. "I don't know…"

"Well, never mind. The reason I'm here in the first place requires little thinking on your part and I will try to use small words and short sentences wherever possible…"

"Uh…yes?"

"Mentoring," Torrin explained, then added, "Oh I'm sorry, that is perhaps a rather large word for you to digest, I suppose. Long and short of it; the management of this Tower believe your time would be well spent guiding a young and enquiring mind – apologies for the use of 'enquiring' there – we're assigning an apprentice to you." He paused, noting her blank expression. "Dear me, you're making me work rather hard…" he chastised her. "We. Are…" he began in a slow, deliberate tone of voice. "Going. To. Put. You. In. Charge. Of. A. Young. Person." Retrieving the parchment from the top of her unresisting head and placing it back onto the desk, he added. "Character building stuff. I'm sure you'll thank me later, when you've recovered use your faculties…such as they are."

Alyce blinked at him. "A young person?" she asked.

"Yes!" Torrin clapped his hands together, pleased _something _had managed to get through. "A young lass from Orzammar." Glancing at his piece of parchment, he added, "Name's Dagna…ooh, _Smith Caste; _most impressive. You're in charge," he told her. "That is all."

Turning, Senior Enchanter Torrin tossed the parchment over his shoulder. It wafted down onto the table, obscuring Neria's letter. Alyce stared at it.

_Wait…_she sat up straighter. _I'm supposed to be mentoring a…a dwarf? _She blinked at Torrin's parchment. _Dagna, lately of Smith caste Janar of Orzammar…_Alyce rose to her feet rapidly. "Dwarf?" she yelled at the closed door. "You're making me mentor a non-magical person?" She snatched up the pieces of parchment – Neria's letter and signed permission slip from the First Enchanter – waving it in bewilderment. "What have I done _this _time!" And… "It wasn't me!"

-oo-


	33. Coronation

A/N: Well, Chapter '33' doesn't sound so bad…it's like '3' except it's brought a friend…um_…_

Thanks to _Roxfox1962…_if not for her insightful chapter about Torrin, this chapter would still be languishing out of reach…cocktail in hand, poking its tongue at me.

Also special thanks to all of you who have read (and hopefully still want to read!), tagged/alerted this story and have sent such kind reviews. Your appreciation and comments are truly appreciated.

-oo-

**Chapter 33 – Coronation**

The day had dawned to cold drizzle, casting a damp grey shroud over the city. Mid-morning, winds from the Amaranthine scoured the clouds, leaving behind streaked skies of palest blue. On the streets of Denerim, The Long Walk from the palace through the noble quarter to the Denerim Chantry sparkled silver and gold as soldiers from the palace and the Bannorn began taking up their positions of honour; banners streaming above them like tethered, airborne fish. The buzz of conversation grew as the morning segued into midday; punctuated by the hopeful cries of pie and ale peddlers weaving in amongst the fast expanding crowds. The event itself may have been downscaled as a mark of respect to those who had fallen during the Blight, but the people of Ferelden were undeterred in their enthusiasm nevertheless.

There was still much to celebrate after all. The line of the Silver Knight had endured, much of Ferelden had been saved from the Archdemon and although the _exact _parentage of the new king might be called into question on another day, _today_ it was forgotten…even _if_ the proprietor of The Gnawed Noble – in the spirit of national pride - hung up a sign above the door renaming the establishment temporarily as 'The Bastard's Head', with a special on for Doxy's Ale and Cuckold pie.

The king did not disappoint the crowds, looking regal and kingly in his golden suit of armour when he appeared in his open carriage and accompanied by an honour guard of mabari and the highly polished knights of Redcliffe and Highever. The journey through the city was short; the service to anoint the country's new ruler…too long…and the king's coronation vestments appeared heavier than the plate armour he wore. Afterwards, while nibbling on the thick crust of her Cuckold pie, Alyce acknowledged that Aidan Cousland had been right when he had described the heavy cape as a 'technicolour coat of dead things'. Trimmed with the coats of _several _dead, spotted things, King Alistair's knees had appeared to buckle slightly under their weight as the Grand Cleric had fastened the toggles securing the garment in place. It was lucky King Alistair didn't have to _ride _back to the palace on horseback, she mused. It would have killed the horse.

The ceremony over, King Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden made a brief appearance on the balcony of the Landsmeet Hall to acknowledge his subjects and provide a speech composed of encouraging words to the rest of the country. Neria had worn robes of silver and blue; the two of them shining bright above them all…two glittering stars incredibly beautiful to behold and much too far away to touch.

Alyce had waved and cheered along with everyone else, filing out of the square when the king had returned inside. She wished she had been allowed to wear the silverite robes given to her by Neria, but Knight Commander Greagoir had objected on the grounds that they made her look far too conspicuous. Instead she had arrived with the other Mages dressed in official Tower uniforms. Looking like colourful butterflies, they turned heads wherever they went in their obvious garb and Mage sticks…but at least the Knight Commander was happy.

With nothing else to do, except wait until the Tower delegation was ready to leave for Lake Calenhad again (which wouldn't happen until the next morning anyway as both Irving and Greagoir had been invited to the evening's celebration banquet), she and Enchanter Deane wandered about the newly-constructed trade square, perusing the various trinkets and souvenirs for sale. Petra had remained at the Tower, much to Alyce's disappointment; suspecting Deane to be _far more _unhappy with this decision than she. With not one but three new apprentices to supervise, the talented healer had had her hands too full to attend a mere coronation.

Deane had taken the edge off his disappointment by discovering a group of dwarves selling parts of animals _on sticks_; tracking them down by the smell of cooking dead creatures with eager and enthusiastic steps.

"Do you think that pie _actually_ had cuckoo in it?" he asked, hands full of wooden skewers of half-chewed…_thing. _Alyce's eyes kept straying to what appeared to be a small paw hanging off one of them.

"I…don't know," she said, trying to distract herself by sorting through a collection of amulets on display nearby. "Does it taste like chicken?" she asked, picking up a coin for inspection. One side had the symbol of Andraste on it, the other a reasonably accurate stamp of King Alistair's head. "Because it tasted like chicken to me." _Hm…the nose is slightly wrong…_

"Is that the king?" Deane asked over her shoulder; Alyce holding it up for him to look at. "His nose is slightly wrong."

"He does have an awfully nice nose," Alyce commented, placing the coin back onto the table. "I suppose something like that would be difficult to reproduce on a mere coin…"

"You _like_ the king?" Deane asked with raised eyebrows. "_Ooh_…"

"Shut up…Or I'm telling Petra that you keep making moo-moo eyes at her."

"'Moo-moo' eyes? What the Fade is…? And I do not!"

"Ooh, you do too!"

"Do not!"

"Miss Amell?"

Both Mages stopped arguing and turned…neither saw the speaker until they directed their gazes downwards. It was an elf, wearing the colours of the royal household. She smiled up at the two of them, unperturbed by the fact both Alyce and Deane towered over her by a foot or more. Deane helpfully pointed a skewered beast towards Alyce. "She's the Miss," he told the messenger helpfully.

"Thank you," the elf said, eyeing Deane's heavily stubbled chin thoughtfully. "I would never have guessed…"

She turned to Alyce. "I have been directed to accompany you to the palace," the woman told her. "The Commander of the Grey wishes an audience with you."

Deane bumped his companion's arm with his elbow. "I think that might mean Surana wants to have a bit of a gab."

Alyce poked him back. "I knew that!" _Mostly…_She'd completely forgotten that Neria would be leaving for the new Grey Warden headquarters soon. She'd been meaning to send a note to Neria herself, but…she hadn't been too sure how, or whether Neria would have the time…But if she hadn't done anything, would Neria have been angry at her?

She sighed. "Lead on," she told the woman.

-oo-

"In here Miss…"

Alyce stepped into the room, bowing her thanks to Neria's elven servant, wondering whether the elderly woman felt…awkward having to serve another elf. On the way from the trade square to the palace, Alyce had learned that the woman's name was Ilrenie and was to travel to Amaranthine with the new Warden Commander. Like Neria the woman's eyes were a deep amethyst colour; her ice-white hair pulled back primly into a single, smooth knot at her neck. For some reason, Ilrenie found her amusing, eyeing the horrible mustard robes Alyce wore with a mysterious smile. She showed Alyce where the bell-pull was located, smiling inscrutably again. "In case you need anything, Miss…" she explained…_Perhaps it's an elven thing…_Alyce wondered as the servant departed.

She looked about the room. The last time she had been here, there had been an _abomination _in it and a very tired, overwrought Neria. She hadn't taken in much detail but now that she was alone in it, she could look at her leisure. Ilrenie had called it 'the Blue Room. Standing nervously in the centre, in case she broke something valuable by moving about too much, Alyce had to agree that the room was indeed…blue. The drapes were blue. The deep rug that swallowed her feet up to her ankles was blue. The walls were painted blue and the ceiling was also blue with gold stars on it depicting the constellations of the Hunter and the Upright Donkey…Or was it the Depressed Beaver? Alyce frowned, changing position slightly to view the painted nightscape from a different angle. If she stood by the bed, it appeared to be Naked Lady With Broken Harp. From the ornately carved writing table, it was definitely the Drunken Fish Choking On A Marble…was there a constellation called The Drunken Fish Choking On A Marble, she wondered? _That's what she had learned at the Tower…_

On the other hand it had been Enchanter Sweeney who had instructed them in all things celestial; once showing them The Prostrate Bear and the Winged Cupcake. _However_, as it was pretty much agreed upon that Sweeney was a tad doolally, these descriptions were to be taken with a sack of salt.

As Alyce squinted up at the mural, she became aware of a soft grunting noise. Curious, she stood perfectly still, listening carefully. It appeared to be coming from under the bed…

Paralysis spell at the ready, Alyce approached the heavy four-poster cautiously. She extended her foot, using her toe to lift the valance…There was definitely something – or _someone_ – underneath.

"What are you doing?"

Startled, Alyce fired off the paralysis spell too early. It hit the door frame; bouncing off randomly into the air, taking a chip out of the wood. Neria ducked in time, but it hit the person behind her.

_The King…_

An embarrassed squeak later, Alyce had dispelled the paralysis spell; King Alistair clutching the doorframe for support while Neria bent over double, laughing. Through Alyce's hastily muttered apologies, the sound of the grunting increased in volume. Alyce turned, her hands erupting into flame automatically.

Her laughter increasing, Neria lowered herself to the floor. Lifting the valance she exposed the source of the noise. "It's alright, Alyce," she chuckled through streaming eyes. "It's only Trouble…"

The thing called 'Trouble' appeared to be wedged under the bed, snoring loudly upside down, paws curled on its deep, brindle-marked chest. As Neria touched its noughts and crosses-scarred nose, the snoring stopped abruptly. One eyelid peeled open, regarding the interruption with sleepy unconcern. The mabari rolled over, a wide yawn exposing perfectly white, if crooked teeth, tongue unfurling like a hall rug being unrolled. Stretching his legs, the mabari shuffled out from under the bed. He approached Alyce and with little effort, launched himself at her. Resting plate-sized paws on either side of her head, he nosed at the pendant of ashes and oak leaf she wore.

"Oh, don't be afraid, Alyce…" Neria assured her hastily. "He's only being friendly…"

Alyce reached up around one of Trouble's forelegs to scratch underneath an ear. "Mabari don't eat Mages," she stated. "We taste funny."

"Well, you're brave, that's all I can say," King Alistair said behind Neria. "Most people would have screamed and melted into a puddle of quivering fear by now."

The brindle patch on the mabari's chest, Alyce noted, was helpfully shaped like an arrow, as if to say 'this side up; just in case people were confused. She smiled into deep-set, currant-black eyes. "He was right. You don't all look alike, do you?"

Trouble cocked his massive head at her. She had no idea how much a beast of this size would have weighed and yet she felt none of it; Trouble holding himself upright easily as he continued his inspection of her.

"Beautiful…" she murmured, smoothing the fur over scar-thickened ears.

"No _really_," the king continued. "He _must_ like you…He would have taken a chunk out of you by now. He's certainly had his pound of flesh from me…"

"That's because you like teasing him," Neria reminded him over her shoulder.

"Because I so like being mauled by a full-grown mabari…" the king replied dryly. "Clearly, I need to get out more….Anyway…" King Alistair stepped around Neria, though Alyce noticed he kept his distance from Trouble. "I wanted to thank you," he said. "I didn't really get a chance to do so before you left for the Tower with the other Mages. I understand if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be wearing the Extra Shiny Armour today…not that that wouldn't be a _bad _thing…" He caught Neria's disapproving stare and grimaced. "Well, alright, it would be a bad thing. Anyway, I – We, whatever - thank you."

Despite her best efforts to suppress the blood rush to her face, Alyce's cheeks turned traitorously scarlet. Giggling nervously she wondered whether the occasion called for a curtsey, deciding with a bow instead. "It was, um…any friend of…anything for Neria," she said eventually, directing her gaze towards Neria. Her friend stared unhappily at the floor, bottom lip clamped firmly between her teeth, not looking particularly pleased at being referred to.

King Alistair did not seem to notice, or else he chose not to. He exhaled a sigh long of suffering. "Well, I had better go and open the banquet…" he told them with a roll of his eye. "Someone important has to wave at the servants to open the doors, apparently and mine was the name they pulled out of the hat…" Before he left, he placed a hand on Neria's shoulder, leaning down. "I can only hold Eamon for so long," he told her quietly, continuing a conversation only the two Grey Wardens were familiar with.

Neria nodded. A regal wave and he had exited the room, leaving behind an oddly awkward, empty silence in his wake. The man had filled the space with his presence and leaving it seemed to take some of the colour from the room…Alyce watched Neria avoid her gaze, wondering why her old Tower friend had summoned her here, if she hadn't actually wanted to talk to her. Tossing off a shaky laugh, Alyce sat on the edge of the bed. "Is it treason to have a crush on the King?" she asked, immediately regretting her words as Neria continued to stare at the rug.

"Neria, talk to…"

"Can I ask you something?" Neria said suddenly.

Alyce blinked. "Of course," she said. "You know you can ask me anything."

"Back at Ostagar…" Neria began, her voice edged with anger. "You told me I shouldn't become a Grey Warden. _Why?_"

Alyce's head snapped back in surprise; she blinked some more, confused. She tried to remember back to that time, frowning slightly. _Ah…_

"You didn't want me to be a Grey Warden," Neria repeated. "What was your reason? What did you know that I didn't?"

Alyce sighed, throwing up her hands. "Everything…well, not _everything, _exactly," she told Neria; who mirrored her frown. Patting the space beside her, Alyce invited her friend to sit down. Neria did not do so immediately, eyeing Alyce distrustfully before sitting some distance away at the other end of the bed. Splaying her hands across her knees, Alyce stretched her legs out, tapping the toes of her boots together restlessly.

"The thing is," she began in a steady, clear voice, "Back at Ostagar I was one of the Mages that assisted the Warden Commander to prepare the Joining potion. I wasn't privy to the entire process," Alyce was quick to point out. "The Warden Commander deliberately split up preparations to retain its secrecy – and we were all sworn not to reveal what we _did _know…Herbs…that was my part. Wynne had a bigger role, but you know her…"

Neria's frown did not dissipate; if anything deepening. "That doesn't explain…"

"I knew only a little," Alyce told her. "But what I did know was that it was dangerous. The major ingredient was _darkspawn _blood…Good grief Neria, I _knew _what that did to people already. Did you really think I _wanted _you anywhere near that?" Alyce squeezed her eyes shut memories ghosting the inside of her eyelids. "I didn't even know whether you'd survived the Joining until after that horrible battle; after I'd heard you'd been back to the Tower…I wanted to tell you, when we were both at Ostagar, but…"

"The Joining is a closely guarded secret for a reason…" Neria said, as though reciting words belonging to someone else…eager to be rid of them so she wouldn't have to say them ever again. "Was that the only reason?" she asked.

"I'm not sure I understand…" Alyce murmured. "Did you…did you think I didn't want you to be a Grey Warden because I was…_jealous_ of you?" She slid a cautious look towards Neria. The frown appeared to have gone – mostly – the tiniest of wrinkles persisting between Neria's deep lilac eyes. "I don't envy you Neria," Alyce told her. "I've heard what you did – what you had to do – and it's certainly nothing I could have done…Not in this lifetime or the next."

"Alyce…"

"Haven't I already told you…you nutter…" Alyce grinned. Leaning over, she hooked an arm around Neria's neck. "That you were far too beautiful and talented to stay mouldering at the Tower? You were _born _to be great; to shine above us all."

Instead of agreeing and returning to her sunny disposition as Alyce had hoped, Neria began to cry, confusing the taller Mage.

"I'm not…" Neria shook her head vigorously against her friend's claims. "The things I've done…I've done some awful things, Alyce. _Terrible _things…"

"What things?" Alyce asked softly.

"I…I can't say…" Neria wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Maybe one day…I know I can trust you, right? So maybe…one day…I don't know…"

Alyce ruffled the top of Neria's head. "Then 'one day'," she agreed.

Neria stood, giving her face a last wipe with her sleeve. "I had better go…" she told Alyce in a voice that was _almost _but not _quite _the Neria Surana Alyce knew. "I would like to stay and talk more, but…Unfortunately I have lots of Warden Commandering to do, but…You'll come to Amaranthine right? To visit? I could write the First Enchanter requesting you. If it's official…" The attempt at a smile was watery, but slightly more successful. Alyce stood with her, the two Mages heading towards the door hand in hand.

"Of course. I'd love to come and visit," she told Neria, giving her friend's shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze. "Just give me enough time to pick out an appropriate house-warming gift…"

Alyce ushered Neria out before her, stepping out after her and closing the door.

"Hail, Amell!" a voice shouted down the hall as she emerged.

She turned, taken aback by the sight of Aidan Cousland, accompanied by Bann Arl Teagan Redcliffe Guerrin of Somewhere Near Rainesfere. What took her by surprise secondly was that for once, Cousland was not dressed solely in black, but in shades of deep blue and grey; the cobalt of his eyes standing out even more, reflecting the colours of his clothing.

Alyce paused, jamming her fists onto her hips; words of consternation rising to her lips. _Cheeky nug-head never bothered to say goodbye…_she thought darkly. _Clearly, manners weren't part of _this _noble's education…_Except she wasn't given the chance to berate him. In quick strides he was standing before her, pulling her into a kiss that knocked the breath out of her lungs and made her toes curl into tiny knots in her boots.

Someone gasped…Neria? She didn't know. Aidan was smiling down at her in a way that made her think of the heart of a fire…and marshmallows for some reason. She also knew that if he hadn't been holding her this tightly, she would have fallen…

"Am I glad I found you," he told her; voice husky with warmth. "I've missed you, my love..."

-oo-


	34. All About Dwarves

-oo-

**Chapter 34 – All About Dwarves**

She was confused. _I am _not _confused…there's no reason for confusion…_

Ouch!"

Gritting her teeth, Alyce paused her climb and yanked at her robes, hiking them up in a most unladylike way - they had not been designed for climbing ladders (or for any kind of physical activity actually) – gave her knee a quick rub and continued upwards and then sideways, the wheels at the base of the ladder squeaking unnecessarily loud in its tracks.

"Just. A. Bit. Further…" There was no reason to play the scene over and over in her head. _It's just…all of a sudden like that…I don't understand it…_He hadn't even given an explanation for his behaviour; why he'd…_Cousland-handled _her.

"Why are these so far up, for the Maker's sake…?" She had been shocked. _No, not shocked. _Surprised, perhaps. _No, not surprised either. _Incensed, then. _I was definitely a tad put-off, _she conceded, the ladder juddering under her as it stopped moving sideways abruptly, short of her required destination. "Damn! Not even a few inches more? Come _on, _ladder…"

It hadn't been as if she had never…kissed anyone before_…_though to be fair, kissing Ser Ryan must have been like sucking on two-week old bread for the poor man_…_She shuffled her feet as far on the rung as she could, stretching out. _He certainly had not looked too happy about it…_

She read the nearest spine: _"A Tale of Two Thaigs…_Don't like the sound of…_The Old Paragon and the Lyrium Mine…_That doesn't sound helpful…" He hadn't kissed back, so it must have been _bad_…unwelcome…_yucky…"Interview With a Shaper…_I think I'll have…that…one."

As for _Cousland…_? Unpleasant, her mind sneered. Normal people didn't kiss like _that_. _It had been downright unhygienic, if you ask me…She'd _been brought up to keep her tongue _inside _her mouth, like any decent, Maker-fearing, _respectable _person. Intrusive, invasive…and he'd been eating cake. Why hadn't he just brought her the cake instead?

"Bloody…!" She'd stretched too far; her foot slipped; boot heel catching in the rungs. She made a grab for the shelf, the books on dwarves she'd collected thus far tumbling to the floor. Oh, _poop_!" Her grip tenuous, she attempted to sort out her feet…_Torrin had been completely wrong about oranges and kissing…_She pulled her foot violently out from between the rungs. _I'll have to lodge a formal complaint about that…! _She freed her feet, but kicked the ladder away from this side. It crashed into the bookshelf on the opposite bookcase, leaving her to scrabble desperately at the shelf; legs swinging, trying to find purchase, but she could not see past the long skirt of her robes and her feet kept tangling in the _blasted _fabric.

_He could have at least given me warning…Hail Amell, indeed…!_ Her foot found something and she attempted to rest her weight on it. _I should have smacked him…_She heard an unhappy metallic groan where her feet rested. She'd found a _lamp_…They weren't designed to hold the weight of a fully-grown Mage…It was unfair. Why did the person that _she _wanted to…The bookshelf shuddered, creaking ominously. "_Maker…!"_ _Oh don't let go! Don't let go! Don't let go! _The bookshelf gave only one jerk; books of all sizes and thicknesses bouncing off the top of her head before it gave way completely…_And now I'm going to die after only being kissed by a _stupid _nobleman…_

"Aieeee…!" she screeched as the shelves – and her miserably short life – flashed past rather rapidly.

-oo-

Ser Hanleigh enjoyed library duty. It was peaceful, relaxing work that kept him in the warm and dry, unlike the Templars who got sent off by the Knight Commander to go and collect prospective Apprentices. He'd had _his _fill of that earlier in the year. Of course, the library on the Senior Mages' level provided a far different environment than the larger one frequented by the Apprentices. There, the sound of curious minds absorbing knowledge were frequently intermingled with the screams of young bodies being cooked by badly-aimed fire spells. The Senior Mages' library on the other hand was sedate by comparison; very few _actual _Mages came here, although…

From out of the welcome protection of his helm, Ser Hanleigh regarded the flailing Mage with concern. She was a pretty girl, that Amell…though he preferred more dainty morsels. He wondered what had been keeping her so deeply immersed in the uppermost bookshelves. Hardly anyone went up there and by the look of the thing, never maintained…Perhaps he should assist? He wasn't too sure whether he should; running standard Templar procedures through his head to see whether any of the old man's drills covered instances such as these.

"_Bloody…poop…ouch…yargh!"_ He heard her curse loudly.

There was a metallic tap on his shoulder. "Shift's over, Hanleigh. I'm up."

"_Oh my hands…my hands…!"_

Ser Hanleigh inclined his head at the newcomer. "Ser Bran…you're late…" he chided his replacement.

"_What stupid idiot decided to put a lamp _right_ here…!"_

The cheerfully un-helmeted Ser Bran reached into the handy, non-standard pocket that had been sewn into his skirt for a small roll of parchment, unrolling it to show his colleague. "I think I'm on to a good thing here," he grinned. "Just had another three sales and two others are interested…Oh, is that Amell up there?"

_CRACK! "Oh…nug balls…the shelf's going…!"_

"I can't believe you're getting away with selling shares on barrels you haven't even seen yet," Ser Hanleigh frowned behind his helm, adding, "do you think we should help?"

"_Aiiieee…!" Tumble, tumble, thump, bump…THUD_.

Silence.

"I think it may be out of scope," Bran said decisively. "So you're not interested? Is that what you're telling me?"

"_Eek…! Blasted, bloody Andraste's stinking pyre! I'm on fire! I'm on fire!"_

"I just think you should wait until you see those barrels of ale from Highever before you start selling tankards of it," Hanleigh explained with a soft growl.

"_Bucket of water! Need a bucket of water!"_

"You just wait, Hanleigh," Bran waved a warning finger in front of his friend's helm. "You'll regret not getting in early, mark my words…"

"_Flammable Mage robes…! What stupid bloody idiot forgot to put fire retardant in Mage robes?"_

"She's set herself on fire," Ser Hanleigh observed. "I've never seen her do that before."

"Huh," Ser Bran murmured, the two Templars watched the young female Mage scramble about the room, trying not to set anything alight, while trying to put the flames out of her robes. "Do you think she's been Abominated?" Bran mused out loud.

Ser Hanleigh tilted his head as the spear of misfired ice missed his head by inches, shattering into the wall behind him. He hadn't told Bran yet, but he'd tracked down a copy of the _Litany of Adralla _and had it etched onto the inside of his helm…in case he encountered more blood Mages or was ever faced with mind domination again, because one never knew, in his line of work...He'd thought it would be clever to sell the idea to other Templars in the Tower, but all the ones he'd approached thus far had already spent their monthly stipend on _invisible _ale. He'd have to do something about that, eyeing Ser Bran through the eye-slit of his helm resentfully.

He shrugged. "No Abomination worth their salt would be stupid enough to set themselves on fire, don't you think? So…that ale…"

"Change your mind eh?" Bran crowed. "You know, there might be damage to valuable repositories of an academical nature with her going about like that."

"Do you think Ryan would mind if we just…let herself burn out…?"

Ser Bran stared at his colleague, half-impressed, half-insulted. "Are you being stalked by a pune?" he asked.

"Is that a kind of dried plum?" Hanleigh asked. "The same kind Cook puts in her Satinalia puds? I like those."

Bran rolled his eyes. _Maker, I miss Ryan…_he thought darkly. Shouldering Ser Hanleigh aside, he took up guard position. "You're thinking of a prune," he told his learned colleague. "That's a dried plum."

"I think you're wrong," Hanleigh protested, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness from long inactivity. "Prunes are what you get when you sit in the bath for too long. Along with piles."

"Piles of what?" Bran demanded.

"You know, with your bottom…"

Bran glared at his companion. "Are you referring to Antivan bath houses now?"

"I don't know. Never been to an Antivan bath house before..." Hanleigh's expression brightened suddenly. "I hear there are sometimes ladies of ill-repute performing interesting things with towels in Antivan bath houses."

"What would I want with an _Antivan _lady of ill-repute for?" Bran curled his lip. "There's nothing wrong with good old _Ferelden _ladies of ill-repute. You don't need to go looking for _foreign _ones…"

"Well…"

"Well."

Ser Hanleigh lowered his voice. He pointed to the heap of singed robes lying amidst smoking bits of ladder and books. "She's stopped moving," he said. "Do you think she's dead?"

"What, like Senior Enchanter Whinge?"

"Heh, heh…'Senior Enchanter Whinge'. I like that…"

A single, heavy tome slid out from the top shelf; the last to fall, landing on something _soft. "Ouch! Oh Maker…I think I'm dead_…_"_

"Right…" Hanleigh sighed. "I think I'll just pop into the infirmary and let the lass there know that Amell's gone and injured herself again, shall I?"

"You do that, laddie…" Bran said approvingly. "And hurry back," he recommended. "I'd hate to have to do that thing with the mouth…to revive her and so forth."

Ser Hanleigh gave his colleague a dubious look; completely lost, hidden as it was behind the thick metal of his Templar helm. Bran hadn't sounded as though he would be _too _unhappy with that particular duty. "Yup," he told the un-helmed Templar, adding because of all the Templars in the Tower, _Bran _would know…"Because that would be like sucking on two-week old bread, yeh?" _And we wouldn't want that…_

-oo-

_One…two…three…_Alyce had to stop, leaning painfully against the wall to catch her breath. She was in too much pain to cast any helpful spells on _herself…_Not that Petra hadn't already done a sterling job patching her up, but it had been incredibly painful making her way this far; never mind where she was supposed to be. Counting the doors to her destination had been a way to take her mind off her aching bruises, bandaged cuts and the chilly draft around her shins. Keili did not have any robes in stock her size so she'd had to make do with something smaller. She looked like she was wearing a bathrobe…

"Ah…Alyce…" Senior Torrin's disembodied head appeared through the doorway at the far end of the curved hall. "You're late," he observed, then frowned at her garb. "Have you shrunk in the wash?"

"Fell off the bookshelf in the library," she explained, limping forward.

"My word!" Torrin exclaimed. "Is everything alright?"

"Well, I'm a bit bruised and cut…"

"No valuable tomes damaged I hope. We keep the more important of our collections in that library…Alyce, if you've …"

"Thanks for your concern, Torrin," Alyce grunted at him.

"Senior Enchanter," he corrected. "And one of us needs to maintain appropriate priorities. Now, do hurry up. I don't have all day."

Continuing to use the wall as a prop, Alyce hurried as best as her aches and injuries would allow. When she entered the room, it was to find Torrin standing by the door waiting for her. "Ah…And it's only been several hours since we last spoke," he commented.

"I was in the library, researching!" Alyce told him defensively. "When I…and then…oh never mind."

"Research?" Torrin enquired. "I don't recall giving you an assignment."

"Dwarves," Alyce reminded him, worry creeping into her voice. "I was researching _dwarves,_ for you know, the…whatsit."

"Dwarf?" Torrin asked, beneath a crooked eyebrow.

"Yes!" Alyce exclaimed. "Do you know that supposedly the best collection of research materials in Ferelden has very little in the way of dwarf…stuff?"

"Stuff?" Torrin asked, the eyebrow descending with the other in a frown.

"Yes! Stuff!" she exclaimed, waving her arms about and wincing, because it hurt.

Torrin sighed. "I should know better by now than to ask; but what 'stuff' are you referring to?"

"Such as…What do dwarves _eat_?"

Senior Enchanter Torrin stared at Amell a good full second. "Food, I imagine," he replied.

"Yes! But what kind of food? Do I have to have some sent over – up – from Ozammar? What if she needs some kind of special diet?"

Torrin sighed again, passing a hand over his eyes. "Alyce, perhaps you're over-thinking this…"

"No, no, no! Torrin, this is really important!"

"Senior Enchanter…"

"…because what if I'm supposed to give her something she's supposed to have, but I don't and she gets sick because I haven't done the right thing and then we start a war between the Mages and the dwarves because I've been neglectful in the proper care and maintenance of one of their people? Maker's breath, Torrin, I might have _doomed _the rest of Ferelden and we've only just recovered from the darkspawn!"

"Senior Enchanter…" Torrin said vaguely, wondering why he even _bothered. _In times such as these, he rather missed Ser Ryan. The Templar had always had an unerring ability to manage Alyce Amell. Apart from the years spent in Orlais and a slightly shorter deployment in his maternal home-country of Nevarra, Ser Ryan had spent a great deal of time at the Tower of Magi in Ferelden, arriving around the time that Alyce had been handed over to him by Niall. The handover had been a surprise at first. Niall was one of the most patient teachers Torrin had ever had the honour to have known. The talented Enchanter had also come from a family where magic had not been considered a bane to existence, much like Amell's own background. The two had much in common. He had not expected Niall to have formed something of an _attachment _to the girl, true, thinking Niall too bookish and introspective to bother with the opposite sex, but…And here he sighed. It had all been a bit pointless really in the end; Niall deciding on _heroism_, rather than self-preservation and because of it, the Circle had been deprived of not only one of its brightest minds, but of a good man as well…and a damned good friend.

"Dagna of House Janar is a _dwarf,_ Enchanter Amell," Torrin informed the young Mage dryly, "_not _a hippopotamus. I doubt you'll find her needs any more exotic than your own..."

Ser Ryan had reminded him a little of Niall. Endlessly patient, unnervingly serene, both men had preferred to remain quiet observers rather than active participants, though he suspected the Templar had been far more talented in Templar techniques and the art of war than the man let on. Judging by the Knight Commander's incensed reaction in finding out that one of his best men had been 'ruined', Ser Ryan had probably been relied upon by Greagoir far more than anyone had realised. Indeed, Irving had intimated in his usual, vague way that Greagoir might even have been grooming the man to take over as Knight Commander. Ryan had been of an appropriate age and experience and he was certainly regarded very highly by his peers.

Senior Torrin was quite aware of the 'reputation' the Templar had amongst some of the Apprentices and Mages in the Tower, but to his knowledge Ser Ryan had never taken advantage of his popularity…or his appeal, choosing instead to maintain a respectful, professional distance from the inmates of the Tower. The same could not be said of other, less interesting Templars…

Alyce had leaned in close. "She's allergic to cheese?" she asked hopefully.

Torrin wondered what had _really _occurred during that trip to Denerim or even whether some kind of attachment had been formed during their brief posting to Ostagar, but nothing had seemed amiss on their return – not that it mattered when they did return - and as usual it had been Ser Ryan Torrin had found himself turning to, to extricate her from Owain's store room. It had also been Ser Ryan he had asked to assist in assessing her fitness for Ostagar in the first place…And now even the Templar had been lost to the Tower and Torrin felt his absence sorely in times such as these.

A Holy Smite would be quite welcome about now…

"How do we _know_?" Amell persisted.

"You could ask me," a clear, bright voice spoke up. "I'm right here…"

Alyce looked about the room. She peered around Torrin, stepping outside to peek into the corridor. When she returned she threw her hands in the air. "An invisible dwarf?" she asked. "Wow…" _How did they do that…?_

A tiny hand appeared about breast height. Alyce looked down…and then down again…It was a child…about eleven or so…a very _precocious _child with pale skin and hair the colour of Orlesian rouge. Two intelligent, cornflower blue eyes stared up at her from a face speckled generously with freckles. "D-D-Da-Dagna…?" Alyce enquired cautiously.

"Just 'Dagna' is fine," the dwarf replied cheerfully. "And allow me to say how much I'm looking forward to partaking in thaumaturgical studies with you…I'm sure under your tutelage that I'm going to learn _heaps _but hopefully – in the spirit of inter-species exchange – I'll be able to pass on information about the common and not-so-common uses of Lyrium Smithing because it'd be really bad if I couldn't make some kind of valuable contribution…And oh, by the way…Amell. Did you know that's a name that the Tevinter Magisters recorded as producing some of the most powerful Mages _ever? _It's kind of brilliant, but the name mysteriously vanished from their registers for nearly _five _generations!"

"Ahh…" The top of Dagna's head barely reached Alyce's navel. Both of them were either going to have to conduct their mentor-apprentice relationship sitting down or develop painful cricks in their necks. Alyce felt she was in enough pain already…She looked towards Senior Enchanter Torrin, but the plaited Mage had already begun edging towards the exit.

"Well, I see the two of you are already getting on famously," he commented suspiciously breathless. "I shall leave you to it then, hm?"

"Ahh…!"

With a self-satisfied smile, Torrin stepped through the door, pulling it firmly shut behind him. Alyce looked down in panic at the tiny, yet voluptuous dwarf. _Why is it that everyone I meet makes me feel like an ironing board with two plums on it?_

"Oh and by the way, in regards to food," Dagna told her helpfully. "I kind of like lichen bread and I'd _totally _recommend Deep Stalker brawn, but I'll eat pretty much anything you throw at me…On my way over here, I had this incredible orange _vegetable _from the _Curcubitaceae _family…I swear, tasted like dust oranges. Pumpkins! Brilliant! Oh and you'll tell me if I'm talking too much, right? My Ma always said I ran on like a herd of Bronto – but I'm sure you'll let me know if I'm overwhelming you or - because I am here primarily to learn and I figured I'd have to make the most of this opportunity so fair warning; I'm going to ask lots of questions…um…are you alright?"

"Hrngh…!" Alyce had stuffed her knuckles between her teeth. "I'm fine…" she squeaked rather indistinctly. "I just have to…" She stared at the closed door longingly. "Privy. Have. To. Go. To…the privy…_now…!_" Making a run for it, she collided full-tilt into the door, before it occurred to her that she had better open it first. She stepped through, slamming it shut and leaning it against it. Squeezing her fists into balls, she pummelled her forehead, prancing about idiotically in the empty hallway, heedless of the agony it was causing her. She was even sure she opened up a few lacerations under her bandages, but it couldn't be helped, leaping up and down like a frog in a sugar jar.

They had told her that her Apprentice was going to be a girl. They had let her know that she would be a _dwarf…_What they hadn't told her…was that she was going to be _so…darned…cute…!_

"I just want to pinch her little freckled plum-button cheeks!" Alyce hopped up and down, squealing as quietly as she could. A moment later, she had stopped, smoothing down her too-short set of robes. She shook the hair off her shoulders and straightened them. Setting her jaw, she took an authoritative step forwards, opening the door this time, before colliding with it.

She smiled serenely at Dagna, trying her best to channel Ser Ryan…_even if he didn't kiss me back…the bastard…_.

"Now…" she began, with only a little tremble in her voice. "Why don't I start by taking you through some of the basics…?"

-oo-


	35. Sympathy

A/N: Again and again, thank you to all of you incredibly kind and patient people who have sent reviews and have bookmarked this story. I'm just really blown away by the fact that people are still reading this…Haven't you gotten bored by now? Oh wait…was that a snore…? Okay…I'll be vewy, vewy, qwiet…Shhh…

Because it's been a while…Bioware own the sandpit. I'm just wiggling my toes in it…amazing what you'll find in amongst the plastic spades and buckets...

-oo

**Chapter 35 - Sympathy**

There was nothing for it but to simply resign herself and sweep her feelings under whatever convenient mental rug she could conjure. The hurt went deeper than a mere cut. It would scar her for life…Alyce told herself she should be used to it by now; the resentful stare, the sarcastic retorts…the deliberate absence of any sympathy whatsoever…and that glare had the ability to wound…

"I will do it _this _time, Alyce…" Petra told her through tightly pursed lips; hands curled impatiently on her hips. "But I have far, _far _better things to do than continually _heal _you…!"

Alyce's bottom lip quivered. "But…!" she began…her protest withering to ashes under Petra's scorching stare. She sniffed pathetically.

"How in _Andraste's _name did you even _manage _to impale yourself on a quill of all things?" the healer demanded. "Not to mention: you could have pulled it out yourself."

"But it hurt…" Alyce whimpered – and it still did. Sitting beside her, the young dwarf, Dagna, giggled. Alyce poked her in the side with her elbow.

"I offered to pull it out for you," Dagna reminded her cheerfully.

Enchanter Petra rolled her eyes in exasperation and tapped the counter top, indicating the patient place her hand atop it. Alyce did so reluctantly. As Petra reached out, she snatched her hand back. "Wait, wait…I need…I need to prepare myself…"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Petra told her sharply – oh she truly was the second coming of Wynne, Alyce thought – the counter top being tapped far more impatiently than before. "Hand. Here. _Now…_Or you can go about the rest of your life with a chicken feather imbedded in your hand and if it starts to fester, turn green and pustulent and _falls off…_when I say 'I told you so', it will be without any sympathy whatsoever."

"'Pustulent' isn't a word…"

"Don't make me stick your _other_ hand with something worse…"

Alyce complied, squeezing her eyes shut to the sound of Dagna's amused chuckles.

"Just tell me when you're about to – _smurking fnurking gragh!_" she exclaimed as a tiny ball of searing pain exploded through the back of her hand._ "_You were supposed to warn me!"

Petra sniffed, completely unrepentant. She waved the bloody quill in front of Alyce's nose, even as the wound on the back of Alyce's hand closed up, leaving a tiny pink line behind. "And I don't want to catch you coming here again!" Petra warned her angrily. "At least, not for the rest of the week! Nothing short of a complete disembowelment or decapitation will induce me to assist you. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

"_Mumblemumblemumble…"_

"I _do _beg your pardon?"

Shrinking in her seat, Alyce cast her eyes downwards meekly. "Yes ma'am. Crystal."

"Now go away, and leave me to my work for the Maker's sake Alyce…" Petra added, making shooing gestures with her hands. Both human Mage and dwarf stood, filing out of the infirmary quietly. There was definitely a bit of _trudge _in their steps. Petra resisted the urge to lock the door after them – the infirmary was supposed to remain open to all and for most hours of the day after all – returning to her desk which gave a good view of visitors and prospective patients entering the room. She tapped her finger idly on the surface of the leather ink-blotter, gathering her thoughts. After a short sigh, she pulled a slender bound notebook from out of a drawer and with the quill recently removed from Alyce's hand in her own, opened the notebook to a half-full page.

Staring at the growing number of paragraphs, Petra gave her head a sad shake. _Fifth incident this week…_she thought. _What is wrong with her…?_ It was almost as if there was a completely different Mage residing within Alyce Amell. Petra had known Alyce for as long as she'd been at the Tower. Alyce had always been a _careful _Mage. An aversion to failure, a talent for absorbing the most difficult of magic-work and a natural inclination towards self-unawareness had put Amell on the Circle's list of Brightest Mages; a position that she appeared to have lost in the last few weeks.

If she wasn't careful, she would end up on the list of those being prepared to be made Tranquil…if the rumours were true.

With this thought in mind, Petra's quill hovered uncertainly over the page. Alyce was a _friend. _They had been through so much together. It seemed wrong in a way to report on her friend like this…but the First Enchanter had explained his reasons. It was for Amell's own good.

Dipping the quill into the ink well, Petra continued filling the page with an account of today's visit by Enchanter Amell…

-oo-

The last log fell onto the top of the pile. Ser Ryan hung the axe neatly onto the wall. After collecting enough logs for the evening, he latched the shed door behind him, the walls shaking worryingly as he did so. He figured the shed too would need replacement at some point, adding it to the already enormous list of repairs to the Tremayne family property. Here and there he could see Geraint's unique, personal touches around the place; a wall reinforced with metal rather than wood here…some fancy scrollwork there…His younger brother had even made some very nice hanging planters for the rickety kitchen verandah; conspicuously ornate amongst the plain peasant architecture of the house in general.

Still cradling the load of firewood, Ryan stopped short of entering the house, standing on the mossy steps to survey the rest of his handiwork. The wild grass had been tamed to an acceptable height, the trellises of the vegetable garden re-wired and the most obnoxious of weeds removed. He'd put down some potatoes, pumpkins and peas into the raised beds, turning some of the skills he'd learned at the Circle Tower to the home garden. In the spring there would be snap dragons and crocuses to bring some colour into the otherwise drab grey-green of the place as well…if everything managed to survive the Highever winter.

To be honest, he was exhausted. He had been used to hard work; he'd been doing heavy labour, drills, training and long hours for almost twenty years in service to the Chantry, but there had been scheduled rest periods; moments of downtime spent companionably with colleagues chatting, studying, or simply larking about. It hadn't always been duty and devotion to The Prophet, even if that did take up most of his time during the day…and then, he was always in company. Here…

Here, he was alone.

In addition to his normal duties in the Highever Guard, assessing and training new recruits, maintaining his own skills and seemingly never ending repairs at home, he'd been volunteered to assist Mother Mallol in the Highever Chantry. It left him very little time during the day for small moments such as these to simply _stop _and take stock of the world around him. There was also little sleep to be had; his father insisting on waking up the household at odd hours of the night. Ser Ryan had gotten used to being able to fall asleep almost immediately after settling Ser Gavin, but it was the hours before, lying half-asleep _anticipating _being disturbed and woken that was the difficult part.

He'd been meaning to write Sers Bran and Hanleigh, perhaps send them that barrel of excellent Greenfell ale he had promised, but there hadn't been any _time…_

Beyond the small garden and rickety log shed, stretched a bit of wilderness and windswept, scantily-forested hillside; falling rapidly into shadow as the sun began to set. Once again, the day had aged without him noticing; the purple and flame-bruised sky reminding him he had better start the evening fires before too long. He'd forgotten how the temperature plummeted after night fell in Highever.

He'd begun to turn when he realised he was being watched by a pair of large hazel eyes. He smiled, dropping into a friendly crouch.

"Hello Bonnie…" he began. "Has your mother returned?"

The little girl said nothing for a while; then tossing a braid over her shoulder in an oddly adult gesture, she asked him, "Why are you still here?"

"I…live here," he replied simply.

"Why?"

"Because this is my home," Ser Ryan told his niece, feeling as though he were walking across cracking ice over a very deep lake.

"No it isn't."

"I am your uncle," he said…_like it or not…_

"No you're not," Bonnie informed him firmly. "Uncle Gerie is our uncle and he's dead. The darkspawn ate him, Mummy said."

Ryan stared down at the rotting wood beneath his feet, at a loss for words. His experience with children was fairly limited to those Mage children he had encountered during the course of his duties. Frightened children terrified by the awakening of their powers and in many cases shunned or abused by the locals and frequently, by their own families. Few stood defiant and simmering with resentment as his young niece did so now. For someone so young, she was rather…_concentrated. _He wondered how Senior Enchanter Wynne or any other of the more motherly Mages would have handled the situation.

_Ah…just tell her she's being a right old poop-head and that she's just going to have to get over it…_

Ryan stood up suddenly, the logs in his arms forgotten until one fell on his foot. The last voice he had expected to hear in his head had been _Amell's_.

Still…

"You're a bit clumsy," his niece informed him helpfully. "You dropped it on your foot. Does it hurt?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Good," she glared at him.

"You're being a bit of an old poop-head," he told her. Extricating a finger from his hold around the remaining logs in his arms, he wagged it at her. "And I _am _your uncle…Your mother's brother and your grandparents' son, like it or not. I'm afraid you're simply going to have to get over that fact." _Well, not _exactly _what she would have said, but close enough._

Bonnie shrugged. "I don't care…" she told him without any real enthusiasm. As Ryan bent down to pick up the stray log, she asked. "Are you going to get eaten by darkspawn too?"

Ryan froze. He looked over at Bonnie; chewing on her bottom lip, her small grubby hands tangling in a dress that was far too thin for this weather. He would have to look into finding some more appropriate winter-wear, not really knowing how to go about that without intruding on his sister's territory or even where to find children's clothes in the first place outside of the Circle of Magi…What he _could _do in the meantime however…"No I'm not," he told her firmly and confidently. "The Grey Wardens killed the Archdemon in Denerim and vanquished the darkspawn back to the Deep Roads."

"Oh."

"And if they did try to eat me, I would fight them too."

"No you wouldn't!" she giggled suddenly, finding the bloodthirsty topic of conversation amusing.

"I would. I'm quite skilled with a sword."

"They ate Uncle Geraint…" she pointed out, her mouth curving downwards.

"That's because your Uncle…didn't have a sword," he told her truthfully. _No, the man had a bloody pickaxe, for the Maker's sake…_

"Oh. If he had a sword, would the darkspawn not have eaten him?"

"Definitely not," he lied, thinking Andraste would forgive him this one, small falsehood.

"Oh. But you have a sword?"

"Several swords," he said with some relief as this time around, he hadn't had to lie.

"Oh. See you then." With that, she turned and left, leaving him bemused by the suddenness of her departure and the abrupt end to their conversation; the barest chuckle rumbling in his chest. Shaking his head, he continued on into the house. There was still a great deal to do before turning in tonight, and that would not be for several more hours. If he was lucky.

-oo-

Heavy boot steps behind him heralded the arrival of his brother. Fergus Cousland had never been convinced of the benefits of a _quiet _approach, preferring to announce his intent to engage an enemy with a bellowing battle cry before barrelling face-first into a target. Aidan, on the other hand maintained his stance on a more quiet approach; a _melding _with the shadows to scope out a foe's weak points, using the environment to one's advantage and then sliding into position for best advantage; was to him a far more subtle and _respectful_ way to insert a sharpened weapon of the combatant's choice into an enemy. The element of surprise and stealth was a far more stylish way to despatch one's enemy. Fergus however, thought his younger brother's method _unsporting…_

_Well…to each their own…_In practice melees, he would have disabled three opponents and would be rapidly moving on to victim number four, by the time his brother had finished shouting at and knocking down just the one.

On this occasion, Fergus announced his presence puffing like a smithy's bellow. Aidan had plenty of time to prepare, so that by the time Fergus came into view, he was waiting for him; propped lazily against the wall, his features arranged into an expression of languid boredom.

"A word with you!" Fergus barked at him.

Aidan contemplated his older brother from under his eyelashes, returning promptly to the extraction of invisible dirt from under his nails with the point of one of his curved daggers. "Certainly," he agreed. "Just the one?"

"What?"

"Well, that was four – five if you count your last exclamation," Aidan pointed out helpfully.

Fergus' anger dissolved into exasperation. It was difficult for the innately good-natured older Cousland to remain angry at anything. "I see," he sniffed, folding his arms. "You're going to be _smart_."

"I'm always smart," one corner of Aidan's mouth turned up unrepentantly. "And save your huffing, dear brother. I know what you're going to growl at me."

"Oh," Fergus deflated some more. "Then you know how inappropriate your behaviour has been?" he said. "And you don't care?"

Aidan made a tiny moue with his mouth, feigning innocence. "Should I? Seems to me I made a perfectly legitimate business deal…"

"Business deal!" his brother exploded. "Is that how you see the young lady? A mere _business deal_?"

"Young lady?" Aidan frowned. "A _bitch_ is not…" He saw Fergus' hand twitch way before it connected with his jaw, snapping his head back out of the way. It cracked painfully on the stone, owing to his proximity to the wall, but at least he had avoided a split lip from his brother's fist. It would have marred his appearance and he did so have an abhorrence for facial disfigurements…Unless they made him look rakish…and the young lady he had arranged to meet later that evening _did _have a preference for rakish…but not for cut lips…It would have made the proceedings rather…distracting.

"You have done some cavalier things in your time, Aidan," Fergus seethed, "but this goes beyond…_anything…_We _owe _Alyce Amell a debt of gratitude. Not…Not…!"

"Oh…!" Aidan threw up his hands as his older brother continued to struggle with his speech. "You speak of Enchanter Amell…I speak of a very nice arrangement to bring one of the surviving Denerim _Mabari _to Highever. Lovely little bitch – or 'lady' if you would prefer to call her – well-proportioned; nice deep chest, beautiful temperament…should add quite nicely our line here."

"Mabari…!" Fergus sounded out of breath. "And what of...that little…I have heard reports of your behaviour at the coronation – and in front of Arl Teagan! You could at least have made an _attempt _at circumspection…if nothing else…!"

"Guh…" Aidan made a face. "Has Teagan been gossiping again? Honestly, the two of you are like a couple of old chickens in a hen house…"

"That," Fergus pointed out with a lift of his chin, while two pink spots appeared on his face; one per cheek. "Is not the point."

"If you must know, old chicken," Aidan informed him, leaning back onto the wall again and inclining his head towards his brother. "It was just a kiss. In appreciation of her services to our family…" This piece of information had been formulated to discombobulate his older brother and Fergus did not disappoint; spluttering indistinct curses and unhappy words at him.

"This is…is…!" he finally managed.

"I have an _interest…_" Aidan told him in a hard voice, in between Fergus' disjointed exclamations. "I know perfectly well that marriage is out of the question. You may rest your mind on that front. The name of Cousland will remain untarnished by an inappropriate _alliance_." Despite best efforts, Aidan had been unable to keep the resentment from his voice. He had expected some disappointment, but he did not appreciate being hacked inexpertly to pieces in this way.

"An 'interest'?" his brother's voice was as hard as his own. "Is that what you intend to call it?"

Aidan cast his gaze upward, finding scorch marks in the stone above his head, yet to be cleaned by the castle's staff. He fought for calm and it came in the form of the Teyrna, trailing a couple of servants behind her. She paused briefly to survey her quarrelling children with a raised eyebrow. Her gaze flicked for the barest instant on her youngest, coming to rest on her eldest son. When she spoke however, it was to the both of them.

"Much as I've been enjoying the robustness of your very public discussion, boys," she began, "I'm sure your time could be better spent on other more important things." She turned back to her oldest. "Fergus, your father is ready to leave, I understand. Best not keep him waiting. He hopes to complete the tour to return in time for supper."

It was as much a dismissal as a recommendation and both men knew better than to argue when the Teyrna used that tone of voice. Throwing one last, dark look towards his sibling, Fergus turned and left.

Only after the footfalls of her eldest child had faded did Eleanor Cousland turn to her youngest and it was to give him the _other _look; the look that told him despite the passing of years and the increase in the number of wrinkles at the corner of her sharp blue eyes, her inner crystal ball was functioning as efficiently and as accurately as ever. Unnerved by such silent scrutiny, Aidan opened his mouth to say something; anything, to fill the quiet. "Mother…"

"I did not raise my children to be spiteful nor heedless of the feelings of others," she told him in her quiet voice. Eleanor Cousland never needed to shout or scold. A mere disappointed shake of her head; a small downturn of her lips; a soft sigh, were all that had ever been needed to bring either of her boys into line. Father might be argued or reasoned with, enjoying the debate. He also shared their sense of humour; the streak of mischief that ran thick in the blood of every Cousland male (and quite frequently female) ever produced from long before even Guard Captain Sarim Cousland stepped up to fill the void left by his deceased master. Father could be loud, though he rarely needed to be. Their mother was different. Failing mother; _disappointing _her or falling short of her expectations was a crime worse than theft of a freshly baked blackberry tart from Nan's kitchen, filling a brother's boots with deer dung or tadpoles in the water jug for the morning's ablutions.

"I trust that you will know whether you've gone too far _before _doing so, dearest…" his mother stated serenely, before continuing on her way.

Aidan sighed, watching the servants scurry after his mother, trying to keep up with her long, determined steps.

"Too far…" he muttered under his breath. _Maybe…_Tugging at the suddenly too-tight collar of his tunic, Aidan felt a pang of self-doubt. It was only a _tiny _sliver; a concession to his conscience, easily banished. Drawing the velvet pouch from his pocket, Aidan tossed it up into the air, snatching it out of its upward trajectory by its tie strings. "Huh…" He weighed it in his hand, grinning wolfishly at it. _I am undeterred…_"And so…" he told it, "…step one of '_going too far'…_is about to be implemented…"

-oo-


	36. Good Intentions

A/N: Caution…random soap alert, because…well I have no excuse really…except I should stop watching cute Korean rom-coms…(sniffle..._No, Go Mi Nam! Shin Woo's cuter and he buys you shooooz!_).

Sorry 'bout that...

-oo-

**Chapter 36 – Good Intentions**

Aidan stared up at the darkened canopy above, listening to the soft snores of the woman beside him. Long strands of wheat gold lay across her pale shoulder. Taking up a handful, he wound them through his fingers, fine tendrils reflecting red and copper from the lamplight by the bed. Sitting up carefully so as to not disturb his bed partner, Aidan drew on his small clothes and breeches. Throwing his shirt and tunic over his arm, he located his boots, belt and blades. He was in enough control of his faculties to buckle his weapon belt in place before he left the room, leaving nothing behind but an empty wine jug and a generous packet of gold coins. His business had been concluded here. He had no intention of repeating the encounter…

It had been fun, but he was bored now; a state far too easily reached these days. Peace had been returned to Highever, along with a semblance of normality. Like the rest of Ferelden, the people of Highever had simply gathered what remained of their lives and continued…filling in the spaces as best they can.

Aidan was finding that part far more difficult to do.

It wasn't as if he _missed _the days when Cousland Castle was in the hands of a greasy catfish of an Arl; watching his lands and his home being corrupted by Howe's occupancy. He was glad not to have to worry about whether his father would survive his injuries or whether he could make good his promise to take back what was theirs. He was relieved he no longer bore the responsibility for the lives of good men and women, or the burden of their deaths.

What he did miss was the inane, repetitive conversations he'd had with his nephew, being able to watch his brother and his wife go about the daily, ordinary business of family life. Oriana had managed Fergus as deftly as his mother managed their father; their marriage one of a partnership between equals and friends and not just an advantageous match; even if marriage to the lovely Antivan had brought Highever valuable trade arrangements, adding to the Teyrnir's already successful economic (and diplomatic) position. There had been times when Aidan had envied them – brief times only – before he brought himself back into line. The blissful state of bachelorhood had far too many attractions for him to give it up _that _easily, regardless how many pretty and eligible women his mother had lobbed at him. Her efforts to leg-shackle him to some hapless, vapid noblewoman had recommenced at an even more earnest pace since the family's return to their traditional seat, and Aidan was completely and utterly disgusted with the entire process.

There was however, little to occupy him. Now that Fergus was back Aidan found he had returned once more to the position of Little Brother and Youngest Child…

Closing the door of the cottage quietly behind him, the still shirtless younger Cousland peered out into the mist and gloom of late night, his keen eyes catching sight of the tall, dark column standing guard just inside the lich gate. He had to give the ex-Templar credit for his patience as well as his physical fortitude. It can't have been pleasant waiting for him out here in the bone-chilling cold.

Aidan thought at first that Ser Ryan had frozen in place or had fallen asleep; the older man immobile as a marble statue such that when Ser Ryan saluted, Aidan almost…_almost _jumped.

Eyes narrowing, Aidan rubbed at the end of his nose with an idle finger. "Hail, Ser Ryan," he sniffed at his lieutenant.

"I expected you to remain here much longer," Ser Ryan commented as Aidan lifted the latch on the gate and stepped through.

"Are you casting doubt on my talents, Ser Ryan?" Aidan asked, the two men falling into step down the narrow, grassy laneway.

"Not at all, my lord," Ser Ryan countered smoothly. "The lady mentioned that I might as well move on and pick you up in the morning."

"Huh," Aidan handed his tunic to Ser Ryan, shrugging into his shirt and lacing up the collar tightly. He didn't care how ridiculous it looked. He had been a fool to remove himself from the warmth of the house without finishing getting dressed first, but he had not wished to disturb the lady…He reached for the heavy tunic and cloak, adjusting his sword belt to sit more comfortably. "That was ambitious of her…" he told Ser Ryan with a grunt. "Anyway…" he added with a mischievous grin. "It was only to tide me over until Lake Calenhad…"

It was dark and he could not see the other man's expression, so Aidan had to rely on whatever image Ser Ryan's voice evoked in his head.

"Lake Calenhad, my lord?" _Definitely a frown…_Aidan thought.

"Uh-huh," he told Ser Ryan, "I intend to get plenty of practice in before I tackle my big conquest." As he said this, Aidan reached up to swat at a low hanging branch, showering them both with leafy dew. "It won't be easy," he added, chuckling in appreciation. "Up to this point, Alyce Amell has been quite slippery. Huh…if she only knew how her reluctance makes me even more determined…Well, she'd probably skewer me with a bolt of lightning or turn me into a toad…or something equally amphibious."

"Transformation is not a school of magic Tower Mages are instructed in," Ser Ryan informed him helpfully. "You are in no danger of being turned into a toad."

"Well, turned into something slimy, oozing and incoherent, anyway…" Aidan shrugged, hooking his thumbs belligerently into the top of his belt. He grinned inwardly. _Oh…the man is good…_"You know her best, Ser Ryan," Aidan said, skipping over a fallen log. "Any useful information you can pass on would be appreciated. What am I supposed to do? Shower her with flowers? A serenade by moonlight? Or perhaps a romantic punt on the lake…strawberries and cream eaten off each other later…"

"You will not be able to obtain strawberries at this time of the year, my lord."

_So negative...and that was another frown…_Aidan's mental grin widened.

"Hothouse, of course," Aidan told him, though where there might be a _hothouse_ in Ferelden, he had no idea…"So anyway…what _are_ your thoughts?"

Ser Ryan said nothing for a while. Aidan glanced towards him; a pointless exercise. It was a clear but moonless night and the overhanging greenery deepened the darkness. He could discern nothing of the ex-Templar's reaction to the conversation. Still, Cousland could _feel_ the older man ponder his words carefully.

"I think…" Ryan said slowly and deliberately, "that any of the strategies you have mentioned will quite likely draw the attention of the Templars stationed at the Tower. W-The Templars are rather protective of their charges."

"Ooh, the shepherds get jealous if a wolf tries to snatch one of their little lambs? I like it!" Aidan exclaimed cheerfully, quite sure Ser Ryan had been about to say 'we'…implying 'I'…He rather liked that too…

"You would liken yourself to a wolf?" Ser Ryan enquired; his tone of voice amused.

"I'm hoping to be," Aidan chuckled. "And don't worry; I have a strategy all ready for the Mage-Herders." He gave a sharp, loud bark of laughter, startling an owl from a nearby tree. "Half the fun is going to be in pursuing my little Mage rabbit…" _And I think I've just overused my store of animal similes…_He thumped Ser Ryan on the arm. "I was going to invite her back to Highever, but thought that would be too obvious. Everyone from my father through to my brother has already raked me over the proverbial hot glowing things at least once. This way, the deed should be done before anyone in Highever realises…"

"The 'deed'…" Ser Ryan paused. "I thought you mentioned…that you were in no…" Collecting himself suddenly, he cleared his throat and continued. "I beg pardon, my lord," he apologised hastily. "I was under the impression that you were not in a position to offer marriage to Enchanter Amell. Please allow me then to felicitate you…"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ryan…" Aidan snorted. "Nothing has changed on _that _front. Marriage is still out of the question. What I intend to propose to Alyce should be a great deal more fun than mere marriage…She will have my protection, will be paid quite handsomely for her…_participation…_while having the added benefit of being able to cease the arrangement whenever she likes without the whole messy business of having to apply to the Grand Cleric to dissolve marriage vows etcetera, etcetera…although, with any luck she won't _want _to discontinue…and _I'll_ get to do the 'severing of all ties'…my attention span being what it is these days…" He made a sudden exclamation of annoyance, kicking his boot toe into the mud. "Oh blast it! Fergus and Father have just returned…"

Aidan indicated with a wave of his hand, the dancing lights cast by torches in the castle courtyard up ahead. He had been hoping to avoid either man on his return from the village. Clearly, they had been delayed by something or other and it was too late for him to find a detour. He would either have to greet them and face whatever consequence his own late arrival induced, or wait until they had gone into the castle proper, hoping that in the meantime, he would remain undiscovered. He chose the latter, confident he'd be able to pick the gate house locks long after his parent and sibling had retired to the residential wing. It was just that while the two of them waited for that to happen, hypothermia was likely to set in; not to mention Ser Ryan had _curfew _to meet.

"You don't need to wait with me, Ser Ryan," Aidan told the ex-Templar, turning to find him deep in thought. Keeping one cautious eye on the activity in the courtyard, Aidan nudged his lieutenant. "Go home," he commanded. "I wouldn't want you to fall foul of your family by staying up to ungodly hours of the morning…" he told him.

"My lord…"

"What?" Aidan snapped, bored by Ser Ryan's formality.

"I…think your scheme might prove more difficult than you envisage."

"Good," Aidan acknowledged with a satisfied nod. "I like a challenge," adding sourly: "It's not like I have anything better to do than to entertain Mother's never ending parade of titled _heffers…_"

"That is uncharitable of you," Ser Ryan told him in a disapproving tone.

"Do you think I care?" Aidan scoffed. "Mother's not going to go to any effort to have Fergus re-married, that's for certain. She's set her attention firmly and stubbornly on me and I don't intend to give up without a fight." He sighed, running a chilly hand through his hair. "Look, Ser Ryan, with any luck I might be able to father…_something_ with Alyce and there's no guarantee that any child that Alyce and I might have will have magical talent. Mother is a soft-touch when it comes to mewling infants; it's quite possible she might prove to be an ally convincing my father to recognise any illegitimate children…Look, we can continue this discussion tomorrow. Right now, I really think you should head on home."

Ser Ryan appeared to linger, unsure whether to say more. Aidan certainly expected him to, so he turned his back on him; resolute in his dismissal, returning to the more important task of watching the castle courtyard. His father and Fergus seemed to be taking an unusually long time to disperse.

"Are you still there…?" Aidan enquired in a bored tone.

"…Good night my lord…" Ser Ryan murmured obediently. Aidan waved him off in a distracted way. In the light of day Aidan would drill the ex-Templar for more information. Right now, both of them had more pressing concerns. In his case…_gloating…_

-oo-

The trip home was a long one. The distance gave Ser Ryan ample time to ponder Aidan Cousland's discussion. _This is not a good idea…The man is going to get himself killed…_he worried, wishing Lord Aidan had allowed him to remain a bit longer. He'd been quite willing to accompany the young lord into the castle; even provide an excuse for their lateness (or corroborate one provided by his lord…if not too outrageous). It might have also provided further opportunity to explain exactly _why _tangling with Templars in such close proximity with their territory was a very bad idea. Even if Amell wanted to leave with Cousland, she was unlikely to be granted permission to do so, simply to…

_Fleeing from the Tower would end badly…_knowing exactly how these sorts of schemes turned out. They would be hunted and they would be found. From the moment Amell left the Tower, she would be automatically labelled an apostate…She would never even _get_ the chance to…and with Cousland…

Ser Ryan halted mid-step, feeling colder than the late-night temperatures should have made him feel.

He did not think Amell would agree to abscond with Aidan Cousland. He had known the Mage since her sixteenth year; when she was a gawky, frequently tome-laden creature visibly far ahead in talent than her peers. She was no trouble-maker. While she made little effort to please others true, she neither went out of her way to antagonise the occupants of the Tower. She was also reticent when it came to forming relationships, keeping to the same friends from childhood. As to other, more intimate relationships…While there had been far better looking apprentices at the Tower, she had still attracted her fair share of admirers, including one of the more senior Mages...

_Perhaps…_he decided after some thought…_'attract' is not a word that I should use…_His frown deepened, uncomfortable with the concept of Amell luring smitten males to her side like a lamp to a swarm of suicidal moths_._ _Win her affection then? _No, Amell was not a…a _prize_, like a rosette or a jar of pickled plums to be won at a village fair. She was human…A person warm of heart; dedicated to her craft, a stout and loyal friend; brave beyond her own talents. Heedless of her own safety, she would fly to the aid of someone who needed it; terrible and wonderful to behold in her rage. Sweet…thoughtful…beautiful…she was at turns completely logical and frustratingly _ridiculous…_There had been times when his patience had been stretched to its outer limits…times when he'd wanted to _shake _her…and other times when he'd…just…

Ser Ryan found his footsteps slowing again. He stopped, scowling deeply at the muddy caps of his boots.

Heaving a sigh, he muttered, "I am, without equal…a _bloody idiot_…"

He loved her…

Well, of _course _he loved her. He'd felt jealousy in Greenfell when he thought she and his own _brother _might…And that day in Denerim when he'd found Geraint; she had been his anchor in the storm of his grief. He'd thought the warmth she'd brought to his days had been mere gratitude; too distracted by the wreck of his life to recognise the signs, to fit the pieces together. Then he'd left the Tower, smug in his own sacrifice of career and promotion, ready to martyr himself to his family. Reality had been far kinder than he deserved. A position in the Highever Guard provided much-needed funds he would not have been able to earn anywhere else. Apart from soldiery, there was little a damaged ex-Templar could do to support his family.

Aidan Cousland may have cited a desire to repay his services to the Teyrnir in the form of a commission in the Teyrn's Guard, but in the end it had been the Couslands and Highever that had saved him. He owed them a debt of loyal service. When Lord Aidan had…_accosted _Alyce in the palace, he'd suffered a most _disloyal _urge to tear the helm from his head and bludgeon Aidan Cousland with it. He hadn't of course…and he was not so dense that he could not see what Cousland was attempting…or was that really his intent? He was sure he'd detected a note of sincerity in Cousland's words when talking about Alyce. The lad was infatuated…of that he was sure. He was also clearly chafing at the bounds preventing him from any serious pursuit of Alyce. Ser Ryan had seen enough lovesick apprentices and Templars during his various postings around Ferelden and beyond, he was quite confident he could recognise it in one young nobleman…

_So what are you going to do about it…?_

Did he have to do anything about it? If he was still at the Tower, pursuing a relationship other than a purely platonic one would have been forbidden; never mind his vows of chastity. Outside of the Tower, he was just an ordinary soldier, barely able to support his own family…He sighed heavy clouds of steam into the frigid air. There was little he _could_ do. He was no longer a Templar but she was still a Mage…watched, supervised, her movements controlled. The First Enchanter kept a tighter leash on his Mages than the Qunari their _Saarebas…_

Would she accept an arrangement of the kind Cousland described?

Ser Ryan doubted it. Alyce was not...like that.

While there was little he could do about his own predicament – even if there _was _one – there was still much that he could do to prevent Cousland from doing something foolish. Few tangled with the Chantry and left unscathed and he seriously doubted that even the son of a Teyrn would be exempt from Chantry ire…

Ser Ryan arrived home so deep in thought he did not see the slight figure in the doorway until he was almost upon it.

It took him several seconds to drag himself back to the present. "Morwenna…Is everything alright?" he asked, glancing in concern to the darkened landing behind her.

She seemed to sigh in relief, hand across her breast. "You're later than expected, Ryan," she told him. "We were beginning to worry…"

Ryan's gaze snapped back to his sister. "Worry…? I apologise," he told her sincerely. "My duties took me much later into the night than I anticipated."

"It…doesn't matter," Morwenna waved her hand dismissively. "You're here. Just get to bed. You'll need to be up before you know it."

"Has father been…?"

"He's been fine," Morwenna assured him, taking him arm and pulling him inside. "And come inside. It's freezing standing out here."

He turned to go. "I'll go and fetch some firewood," he suggested. "It won't take me long to start…"

"Don't worry about that Ryan!" she hissed at him. "Just let me close the door…Maker's breath, did you think we're so inept that we couldn't even build a fire for ourselves? Or haven't you ever noticed how your meals have been cooked? The house is warm enough and…" Shoving the door closed behind him, she pulled her shawl more tightly around her thin body and moved to a narrow table on the landing. She picked up an object and handed it to him. "This arrived today," she told him, dark brows drawing close together in concern. "It was marked 'urgent', but no one could leave the house to deliver it to you. I'm sorry. "

"Don't be…" he assured her, turning the letter over and surprised to see the seal of The Tower of Magi. Holding it up to the candle Morwenna supplied, he made out the Sword of Andraste overlying the Circle emblem. _One of the Tower Templars..._.He broke the seal, wondering whether it had originated from Sers Bran or Hanleigh, though why the urgency, he had no idea…Had something happened to the Knight Commander…? Another blood Mage uprising…? What could…as he read, the words on the page leapt out at him: _Amell…unstable…_She had been under surveillance…and then the word _Tranquil._

"Ryan?" he heard his sister call. "Are you alright? You don't look well…"

Not many Templars attended the ceremony that sundered a Mage's connection to the Fade. It was…difficult to witness. He had. Far more times in his life that he would care to admit. The final cut was always administered by the most senior Templar but the loss of all feeling; all emotion; all ability to laugh, cry, or be angry was still witnessed by the other Templars in the room. That point when all expression faded from a Mage's eyes to be replaced by perpetual ice…He felt his sister place her hand on his arm. He turned. He could see her open her mouth, speaking to him, but he could not hear the words. There was a sharp pain in his chest and he found it difficult to breathe. He had always prided himself on his ability to remain calm, regardless of the circumstances, but he could not think straight, owing to the roaring in his ears and the spinning of his head…

Unable to speak, he handed the letter to his sister, placing a hand on the wall for support.

"I'm not sure I understand…" Morwenna frowned at the letter. "What do they mean by this 'Tranquil' thing? It sounds rather nice, but I take it from your expression and the tone of this letter in general it isn't a good…thing?"

"No…" _Not Alyce…Anyone but Alyce…Maker damn them…_They could not go after the Hero of Ferelden, so they would make an example out of _Amell_? What the Fade had Surana done to incur the wrath of the Circle…? _Fully endorsed by the Knight Commander…_for her part in rendering a Templar unusable…What kind of twisted logic was _that_? _Maker's blood, he had already explained to the Knight Commander what had happened!_

"Ryan…" Morwenna said in growing concern. "I really think you should sit down."

"I…" _I can't save her…_he realised miserably. "Morwenna, I have to return to the castle," he told his sister, straightening. "Will you tell mother that..."

"Are you out of your mind, Ryan?" Morwenna demanded. "Do you realise what time it is? It's freezing out there and you _cannot _return to the castle now. Quite apart from the fact that it's dangerous and you're…" She threw up her hands. "…you're perfectly capable of looking after yourself…" she stated with an exasperated shake of her head. "Why could mother not have had only _daughters…_!"

She glanced back at the letter. "This Amell…" she began, "it's that girl you had with you isn't it?"

Ryan could only manage a nod.

"I liked her," Morwenna smiled at him. "You'll be back?"

He nodded again.

"Well then…" Moving towards the door, Morwenna unlatched it and threw it open. "Off you go. Just…" She exhaled a long-drawn out breath of resignation. "You _owe_ me an explanation and I intend to _collect, _whether you'll be capable of repaying or not. Just…move quickly and…oh, just _go_…"

Ryan did not wait to be told a third time. Unsure what he could actually do, considering he'd just been compiling an argument against Cousland butting heads with the Circle and Chantry, he stumbled out into the night, rapidly gathering speed. The night air stinging his skin and his breath burning in his lungs, Ser Ryan sprinted back towards Castle Cousland.

-oo-


	37. Faith in Friends

A/N: Apologies for the soap-opera folks. Aunt Mildred is official appalled, but it's really not that bad…Onward with the talkfest…

-oo-

**Chapter 37 – Faith in Friends**

Staring into the earnest, hopeful face, Alyce's resolve crumbled. "Oh…_Fine…_" she sighed.

Fire erupted around Alyce's hand. She made the flame dance around her fingers, leaping from fingertip to fingertip until with a deft flick of her wrist, she formed it into a perfect sphere, throwing it at the unlit wall lamp. It hit the lamp with barely a scorch mark on the surrounding wall, the wick spluttering to life. Grinning at Dagna, Alyce held up her other hand, glowing white-blue, cold mist roiling off her skin in chilly waves; ice forming frosty, intricate patterns around each nail. Smile widening, Alyce dispelled the ice spell, electricity crackling between her hands. She tossed lightning from palm to palm like a confectioner pulling toffee; kneading the spears to her will…She tossed the lightning up into the air; bolts hitting the surface of the table, they drew a line down the middle, dispersing with a loud fizz.

Dagna applauded. Laughing, Alyce sketched a bow then sat down with a satisfied sigh.

"That was wonderful! But…it _still_ doesn't explain how you do it…" the dwarf complained.

Alyce leant forward. Propping her elbows on the table between them, she rested her chin on the backs of her hands. "No explanation, Dagna. I just…_do._ All Mages just…_do._ We are born with the talent and somewhere along the line it just gets switched on somehow. For some it comes early, others later. The earliest manifestation of magic I've heard is around age three and that's pretty extreme. The latest that I know personally was twelve or thirteen…Rarely, it happens in adulthood, though I haven't met anyone like that."

"But…_how?_" Dagna persisted, legs swinging restlessly.

Alyce shrugged. "Triggers can be anything from a simple sneeze, through to major emotional trauma. It varies from Mage to Mage."

"And you…?" Dagna asked.

Alyce sat back, staring at the opposite wall. To be quite honest, she couldn't remember. Life in Highever had always been peaceful…she…_imagined; _having a small child's memory of her life before the Tower; golden-tinted days spent…well doing a lot of running, for some reason…and…She frowned. She remembered the old tree – Ser Ryan had told her it was a chestnut – and trying to climb it. A family of owls nested in it every year…She remembered that too. Anything else seemed foggy; vague memories of mere feelings. _I was happy…that's all…_She felt Dagna touch her hand. Alyce startled back to the present, grimacing with lopsided embarrassment.

"I'm trying to remember and failing…" she admitted. "For all I know, my magic began because of a bad pickle I ate," she shrugged. Dagna giggled as Alyce continued, tapping her chin thoughtfully with her index finger. "I would have been…let's see, about six or so when I was brought to the Tower."

"So you remember coming to the Tower?" Dagna asked, eyes alight with curiosity.

"I remember when the Templars came to retrieve me, but…huh, odd…"

"What's odd?"

"I don't remember the trip from Highever, but I do remember the boat ride from Lake Calenhad…"

"With Kester? Was he around then as well?" Dagna chuckled. "When I asked him whether he would take me across the lake, he asked me whether I'd gone mad."

"And what did you tell him?" Alyce asked, eyeing her apprentice cautiously because those big blue eyes were twinkling far too mischievously.

"I told him _yes…_" Dagna said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "That I'd been ejected from my caste because I'd gone berserk and ridden a giant nug through the Diamond Quarter, chasing _darkspawn _into the palace…and my family had sent me here to find some kind of cure for my lunacy…"

"Hm," Alyce nodded agreeably. "That's a credible explanation."

"He just _looked _at me and then patted my head. Then gave me some kind of sugary nugget he called a 'sweet'."

"Is he still handing those out?" Alyce enquired, impressed. "Golly…" Pondering the ceiling, she mused, "I wonder if he buys them by the barrelful…He seems to always have enough for every apprentice that rides his boat." She gave a short laugh, _Kester, Kester, Kester…_If not for the old boatman and his boiled sweets, apprentices would arrive far, far more nervous and scared than if they were paddled across Lake Calenhad surrounded by a wall of grim-faced Templars; unless they wore their helms…and then they would be grim-helmed Templars…

"Anyway…" Alyce rested her palm in her hand again, regarding her tiny charge, "you know a little about me. What about you? I mean _really_, apart from the whole nug-riding, darkspawn chasing thing."

The light appeared to dim slightly in Dagna's eyes; her laughter turning nervous. "I'm…I'm casteless, actually."

Alyce placed her hand over Dagna's, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "If you don't want to talk about it, it's alright…"

"It's fine. Um…It was kind of my decision," Dagna removed her hand from under Alyce's, returning a grateful pat of her own. "I wasn't really cut out to be a smith," she told Alyce. "Fifteen generations of dwarven smiths and I'm the first one to be interested in _magic…_Mother thought it was just a phase, something I'd grow out of eventually…"

"But you didn't…" Alyce grimaced. Finding out Dagna's real age had been quite a shock. It didn't seem right that such a small, dainty person could be a scant three years younger than herself. Well, that is unless you looked, _really _looked at Dagna and saw the old person peeking out from behind those bright blue orbs of hers.

"No," Dagna said simply. "I didn't quite manage that. I used to have these _huge _shouting matches with father." _Another nervous laugh. _"I _hated _working at the forge. I wasn't bad at it exactly – I got by - but it…how to fold lyrium into different kinds of metal; using the right catalyst, making sure component ratios were perfect; _temperatures_ were perfect. It was all so…_uninteresting. _How the lyrium _worked…_now, _that_ was interesting. And then…one day father got tired of arguing with me and arranged _marriage _to some…boy from another smith caste."

Alyce's eyes grew round as she listened. "You're…you're _married?_" she asked in a shocked voice.

Dagna pouted. "He was good looking enough, I suppose. Nice arse…and he could go all night like a…"

"_Awwwwl…right…!_" Alyce stood up suddenly, cheeks aflame. "Well, and that concludes our session for today..." She directed her gaze towards the door, as if expecting to find some kind of distraction in the grain of the wood. "Pudding!" she exclaimed. "Why don't we go downstairs to the refectory and have some lovely spotted di…di…You know, perhaps a walk about the herb garden might be beneficial at this time of the day…Let's go!"

"Alyce…" Dagna folded her arms, sitting back and regarding the tall Mage with a raised eyebrow. "It was _snowing _outside, the last time I looked and anyway; why are you so nervous? Ooh…!" she exclaimed suddenly, eyes widening, "have you _never_…you know…"

"Do I? Know what? Oh, I know! I know lots of things!" Alyce announced. "The sky is blue – very important that. Blue – huh – blue…Like blue paint and…um…stop looking at me like that."

"_Alyce…_"

"Look…it's…"

"You've never _been _with anyone before?" Dagna asked; those eyes too sharp for Alyce's liking.

"I…have…" Alyce said defensively, refusing to meet those razor eyes. "Lots of times."

"Hm…Have you even kissed anyone?"

"Of course I have!" Alyce said, outraged. "Lots of times."

"Hm."

"Hundreds, _thousands_…!"

"_Hm_…?"

Alyce sighed. Still refusing to meet Dagna's gaze, she held up two fingers. Dagna made a sing-song voice of acceptance of this offered bit of visual information. "That's not too bad. Did you stick your…"

"I _never_…!" Alyce said hastily, causing Dagna to exlode into guffaws of mirth. "That's not funny, Dagna! I'll have you know I…I…" She threw up her hands in defeat. Hurling herself into her chair, she slunk down, hooking her knees up from under the table and plonking her booted feet heavily onto the table. She crossed them at the ankles and turned her shoulder on the dwarf while she continued to be laughed at. To her credit, Dagna did try to bring herself under control, but every time she rested her gaze upon Alyce's scowling, hunched form, she would burst into another fit of giggles.

Eventually, Alyce glared at her apprentice over her shoulder. "I suppose _you _have…?"

"Of course…_lots _of times…" Dagna told her, snickering. She smacked the table with the palms of her hands. "I was a late starter," she admitted. "I was fifteen when…golly, I can't even remember his name! Can't have been very good…"

"Thank you," Alyce said sourly. "So…betrothed…not quite married…If you tell me you have a brood of children back home in Orzammar, I'm going to stuff you into an envelope and post you _express _back underground…"

"Oh come _on _Alyce," Dagna managed in a more serious tone of voice. "You can't tell me you never had a crush – serious or not – on anyone…male, female…four-legged…"

"Ha, ha…." Alyce sunk lower in her chair, contemplating the surface of the table over crossed arms. _A crush…_? She thought of Niall; with his gentle smile and his biting wit. She'd realised only belatedly, after he'd gone that she'd perhaps thought of him as something more than a mere friend and a knowledgeable mentor. She had admired him for his Isolationist views. They were so like her own…to hide away somewhere where people didn't point and whisper in frightened voices…_Mage…_as though they were some kind of disease. But…even after such a relatively short time, she could not remember the exact colour of his eyes, or even the timbre of his voice. She could remember things he had said to her; lessons about magic and so forth; pleasant conversations about world events or a particular branch of magic, history, an unusual dinner Cook had served up, but they were now just words in her head no longer in his voice, loosely associated with him...On the _other_ hand…

"His name is…" Alyce began, but stopped. "Well it doesn't really matter what his name is, I guess, but yes…I…admire someone greatly."

"Admire?" Dagna enquired, oh-so-casually.

Alyce tossed off a crooked smile. "It's a bit one-sided," she informed Dagna. "He has no interest in me, so it doesn't matter."

"You'd be wrong about that," Dagna told her. "Did you ever try to make him like you?"

Alyce choked. "You're kidding me? People can't _force _other people to feel…stuff. It's just…" She sighed. "It's different when you're a Mage. If I tried…people would say it's just mind-domination; that I'd ensorcelled Ryan to…" Alyce stopped, noting the rapid rise of Dagna's eyebrows on her forehead. "What?" she asked.

"His name is _Ryan_?" Dagna sang, eyebrows wiggling.

"No, no, no…did I say that? No, I meant to say…'trying'_…trying_ to…ensorcel…You're laughing at me again."

"I'm not!"

"You know, you're small enough to be sent back by carrier pigeon, I've just realised..."

"_Alyce…!_"

Alyce sighed. Fixing her gaze on the criss-cross pattern her boot laces made, she ended up scowling. "As I said, it doesn't matter," she said quietly. "He left. I'll never see him again, so…bit of a moot point…and you didn't really answer my question."

"You didn't answer mine."

"And thus we arrive at an impasse impossible to pass…" Alyce sunk her chin into her chest.

After a while, Dagna cleared her throat. "Not married," she admitted. "No children and…once a dwarf leaves their caste, they don't exist any more. We are dead as far as our families are concerned. I have no one…"

Alyce gave her apprentice a pitying look. Sitting up, she stretched out an arm, looping it around Dagna's shoulders for an impromptu hug and because she was so darned cute, knuckled the top of her head too. "He put up with me, befriended me and has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen on a man," Alyce whispered. "And…" she added, still in the same, soft voice, "The wonderful thing about being admitted into the Tower of Magi…You become part of our very large, very strange _family_, Dagna of Lake Calenhad…_You_ are my sister now and this cold stone Tower your home…" She added with a grimace, "Spotted dick and all…"

Dagna returned her smile with one more like her usual, sunny self. "Sister…" she repeated slowly, seeming to turn the word around like some marvellous new discovery. "I think I like the sound of that..." The sparkle back in her eyes, she asked, "Does that mean we get to swap clothes and steal each other's boyfriends?"

Alyce stared at the tiny dwarf grinning up at her, trying to imagine her in Mage robes and…failing miserably. It would not be a good look.

"Let's just…maybe stick with stealing each other's boyfriends for the moment…" she told her. "Alright?"

Dagna agreed with a sly smile, reaching forward to shuffle through the collection of apprentice primers on the table. "I hope you don't come to regret that statement," she told Alyce. "I rather like men with 'beautiful' eyes…"

There was a brief jingle of metal outside. Three Templars filed into the room, taking up position on either side of the door; the third coming to stand by the desk. The fourth entered…Knight Commander Greagoir. Both Mage and dwarf looked up, Alyce enquiringly; Dagna bewilderingly.

"This is an honour…" Alyce began.

"Perhaps," the Knight Commander growled. "You are to accompany me."

Alyce rose. She pointed to Dagna. Greagoir ignored her, staring at a point behind Alyce's shoulder. With a shrug, she walked to the door, Dagna in tow, the Templars closing in around her.

_Guh…_Alyce rolled her eyes at the Templars. _What is this…? Another bloody Harrowing…?_ _Well, nothing for it but to follow them…_and find out.

-oo-

Soft light streaming through the window slit woke Ser Ryan. It took him several minutes to remember where he was, never having actually _slept _here before. The place he'd awoken in was technically, _his_ quarters, but Cousland had been very understanding about the responsibilities he'd had to his family and allowed him to return to his own home at the end of each day. As long as he reported on time every morning…though by the angle and brightness of the sun, Ser Ryan realised it must be later in the day than he'd like, sitting up abruptly and wincing at muscles stiffened overnight in the cold, unheated room.

He had made it as far as Turner's Well, before his common sense had reasserted itself. He had considered returning home, but as he had been more than half-way to Cousland Castle, it made little sense to try and return home. Panic had given him flight, but once burned out, he'd been left with nothing more than simmering worry and a slight headache. Resting his head in his hands, he kneaded his temples, but the tension from the night before refused to leave.

He had been foolish…jumping to conclusions on _one _letter from Ser Hanleigh…

He hadn't even expected Bran and Hanleigh to keep a weather eye out for Amell. It said something about the two men he'd come to know as well as himself. He'd been tired, overwrought and not thinking particularly straight, but…_Maker's breath…_what had induced Hanleigh to mention such a thing? He had to admit that if there had been the smallest whispering of Alyce being turned Tranquil, there had to be some origin; some truth in the claim. He hadn't known how to go about this, but attempting to seek Cousland's assistance had been a nonsensical notion…as if the young lord could somehow prevent it, if it _were _true. He'd even entertained – very briefly – aiding Lord Aidan in stealing Alyce from the Tower and assisting him to set her up in whatever horrible, vulgar arrangement the young noble had in mind.

He laughed at himself. He had acted more like a youth in the heated throes of a first love; instead of an experienced man of five and thirty…and he knew how the _first _time had turned out…

"Huh…" A voice jolted him out of his bleary thoughts. "I was wondering when you'd wake up…"

Ryan rubbed at his eyes, focusing on the speaker. "My lord," he croaked, too weary to stand.

"I ordered you to return home," Aidan Cousland reminded him through narrowed eyes; though Ser Ryan suspected that expression might have more to do with there being too much light, rather than anything else. "And…" Cousland added, "you were supposed to have reported in for duty three hours ago…"

Ser Ryan frowned. "My apologies, my lord…"

"Save your apologies," Aidan growled. "Thanks to you, I've been treated to the biggest bollocking of my life from Fergus…not to mention _mother…_"

Ser Ryan looked up at the young lord, genuinely surprised. "Then I am truly…"

"Didn't I tell you not to bother?" Aidan interrupted him. "The _topic _of today's timely lecture regards my inability to manage the men under my command. Apparently," Aidan glared at him resentfully. "I've been working you too hard. In fact," he added with an unhappy sniff, "the phrase my affable sibling employed was 'undue burden'. I hadn't realised I had been cracking the whip, but if so…"

"Not at all, my lord," Ryan stood, the room reeling like a ship on a stormy sea.

"Really?" Aidan sniffed again, bloodshot eyes penetrating the fog about Ser Ryan's head. "Then tell me why you look like yesterday's garderobe scrapings…"

There was a pillar close by. Ser Ryan reached for it, almost missing it, but pulling himself over, resting his forehead against the cool wood. He heard Cousland sigh.

"Maker, my head is _killing _me…!" He indicated a jug and tumbler just out of reach. "I'd contemplated pouring you something to drink, Ryan, but I don't think I can manage it…Too much effort…"

Despite his aching…everything, Ser Ryan chuckled. "The honour should be mine, my lord."

"Oh…stow it, you respectable, honourable _bastard._ I tire of your 'lord this' and 'lord that'. I mean…" With great effort, he cast his hands into the air. "I'm about to steal one of your _Mages_ and all you can tell me is that you _think _it 'inadvisable'? What kind of bloody opinion is that? Andraste's smoking tits, man, what did they teach you at the Chantry?"

"Respect for the Prophet Andraste for a start," Ser Ryan told him sternly.

"Uh-huh," Aidan snorted. "Look at this face. Is this a face that cares?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Well, you'd be wrong." Stretching out his legs, Aidan slumped in the chair, resting his arm along the edge of the table. "I don't give a brass nug pellet…"

Ser Ryan gave up trying to continue standing, allowing his legs to collapse beneath him. He had a most undignified urge to weep, the cloth of his shirt riding up his back as it caught on the carvings on the pillar. Elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands. Then, in a most uncharacteristic show of emotion, he tore the binding holding his hair in its ponytail, hurling it across the room. At the table, one hand shielding his eyes from the too-bright sunlight, Aidan observed his lieutenant with growing alarm.

"I…take it, that wasn't for me…" Aidan grimaced. Continuing to watch Ser Ryan he added sagely. "I didn't think so…"

After a while, he asked more cautiously, "Is this about your…Everything all right at home?"

After a moment's pause, Ser Ryan looked up. "My family is well," he told the younger man. "It…I received a letter from the Tower of Magi."

Aidan sat up, suddenly alert. He hadn't liked Ser Ryan's tone of voice when he had said 'Tower of Magi'.

"_Alyce_…" Aidan murmured.

Ser Ryan merely nodded…and then described to him the contents of Ser Hanleigh's letter, or as much as he could remember of it…and then told him what being Tranquil _actually _meant. Before he could finish his speech, Aidan was on his feet, trembling in rage as well as nausea. Teeth gritted and his hands curling into angry fists, he took a step towards the door, swaying and clutching at his head. "Holy Maferath's _balls…_" he groaned. "Why couldn't Alyce have chosen a time to get into trouble when neither of us were so incapacitated…? Damn!" He swung at Ser Ryan's pillar and missed, sinking into the other chair at the table. "I'm dying…Andraste's burning knicker-elastic, I don't think I can make it to the kitchens, never mind Lake Calenhad…but I can have a detail ready to go in…And we could…" He frowned at Ser Ryan's amused expression. "What? You don't think I could take the Tower of Magi? I could…if I tried…really…hard." _Of course, attempting to drag one of father's siege engines across Ferelden would look a tad suspicious…_

"How resistant are you to magic?" Ser Ryan asked.

Aidan glared at him. "Toadiness?" he asked in a flat voice.

"Everything-ness," Ser Ryan clarified.

"Right…" _Thinking…thinking…_Aidan smacked the table, wincing at the noise. "Ow. Okay. Here's the plan. You told me Alyce's Fernery is in the Denerim Chantry…"

"Phylactery."

"Yeah, that. Here's what I propose: We go to Denerim. I seduce the Grand Cleric, steal the key to the Pernickety, take it back and then…you know, you're not taking this as seriously as you should."

"_Phylactery, _my lord."

"Oh there you go again with the 'my lord'. What _is _it with you and formality? Were you dipped into a vat of politeness when you were a child? Good grief, man…!"

"There is nothing we can do," Ser Ryan said, addressing his feet.

"I refuse to believe that!" Aidan exclaimed, leaping once more to his feet…and regretting it immediately. Seizing his pounding head, Aidan sunk to the floor beside his lieutenant. "You're going to give up, is that it?" He eyed the older man with sullen disapproval. _What is wrong with him? _"You don't care. I can't believe…"

"Of course I care!" Ryan snapped at him, causing Cousland to wince.

"Too loud…"

"I am sorry."

"Huh…" _I seriously doubt it…_Aidan viewed Ser Ryan sourly, even the tips of his _ears _hurting…"Then what the blazes do we do?"

"We…trust her."

"Yea…_what_?"

Resting back on the pillar, Ser Ryan repeated his statement. "I…We must trust Alyce."

"Excuse me?" Aidan stared at Ser Ryan in disbelief. If the ex-Templar had just sprouted a tree from his head, with monkeys hanging off it, he would not have been as surprised as he would have been by that statement.

"Enchanter Amell is a _good _Mage," Ser Ryan attempted to explain. "There has never been anything unusual about her training or her status as a Mage. If anything, she is…well, if not a _perfect _example, but a…" He sighed. "She would not have been allowed to undergo her Harrowing if there had been any suspicion surrounding any aspect of her ability to manage her talent," he added more calmly, as though by telling Cousland all this he could reassure _himself._ "Or her personality," he added. "She was the youngest Mage to be selected for the group that went to Ostagar. Less than a week after her Harrowing, she accompanied a delegation to represent the Tower to attend an important event in Redcliffe…" _Some Grey Warden thing, _he remembered. Ser Bran had gone, not him that time.

"I also know for a _fact,_" Ser Ryan continued with a grim smile, "that the Knight Commander took some kind of interest in Alyce's family. He doesn't do that…for anyone. Not Mages…" He paused to breathe. There had also been that very important mission in Denerim before the two of them had ended up in Highever, but Ser Ryan wasn't about to mention _that._ "So we must…_trust_ in Alyce. Trust in the good standing she has built for herself; trust in her…"

_Trust huh…? _Aidan Cousland stared at Ser Ryan, his mouth screwed up in thought.

"Well…" he said eventually. "That was a dumb statement, if I've ever heard one. As for me? I think you've gone completely _barking_…"

Ser Ryan sneezed in reply.

-oo-


	38. Friend or Foe

-oo-

**Chapter 38 – Friend or Foe**

"_Do you know what this is…?_"

Alyce stared at the proffered object. _Is this a trick question…?_ She raised her eyebrows at the Knight Commander enquiringly, wondering whether Greagoir was having one of those 'old man' moments…

"And _this…_!" he threw a similar object across the desk at her. "And _this…_came from _Highever…_"

Alyce heard a dull metallic ring as the Knight Commander extended his foot, kicking at something by the side of his desk. She leant over the side of the large wing-backed chair to see what Greagoir was referring to. It _appeared _to be a small barrel of some kind, though by the Knight Commander's expression, it might as well have been a very large, poisonous snake…a boxful of toxic deathweed…or a spotty Apprentice…

"Well?" Greagoir demanded impatiently.

Alyce looked from the grizzled individual before her to the two slips of paper to the barrel, deciding which to tackle first. The two objects first presented to her were simple letters. The second…"_Oh…_" she said, realisation dawning. "You want me to check for enchantments, curses, that sort of thing?"

"I am perfectly capable of rendering simple magical objects innocuous," he informed her, lips thinning. "I refer to its probable contents."

"Huh?"

"They are _all _addressed to _you_…" the Knight Commander pointed out.

"Huh?" Alyce's face scrunched up in confusion. She had reached for one of the letters when the door to the Knight Commander's office burst open. It was thrown open with such force that it slammed against the wall with a loud boom, bouncing off the stone and catching the outflung arm that had anticipated this very thing.

The First Enchanter stood on the threshold, eyes glittering dangerously beneath his shaggy eyebrows. "I hadn't realised that it was customary practice for the _Knight Commander _to interview Harrowed Mages over simple correspondence," Irving said in a voice several degrees below freezing point.

Unperturbed by his magical colleague's tone of voice, Greagoir folded his arms and sat back in his chair. "I was merely delivering them to her," he told Irving.

"_Clearly._" Irving's nose _twitched _as he stepped into the room. In the chair by the Knight Commander's desk, Alyce took one look at the First Enchanter's thunderous visage and slunk as low as she could in her chair. A small target was a hard target to hit in the cross-fire. Of course, if she had been Dagna's size, this would have been more effective. For someone like her however…not so much.

Drawing her knees up into the chair, she reached over to Greagoir's desk to retrieve the two letters, while the two most senior representatives of the Tower groups continued to trade thinly veiled insults at each other…and then the veil was stripped off to allow out and out accusation and name-calling…

Ignoring them, Alyce inspected the letters. One of them had Ferelden's cutest coat of arms upon it; the cuddly brown bear of Amaranthine. It had to be from Neria…Breaking the seal; she unfolded the letter and began to read, the verbal battle continuing above her head…

_Dear Alyce, _the letter said, _I hope this letter finds you well…_

"…and I suppose these rumours originated from _your _men…!"

…_Amaranthine and Vigil's Keep were not what I expected…_

"…that is a base and unjustified accusation I refuse to acknowledge…!"

…_the Orlesian Grey Wardens that had been allowed to lodge here were not present when we arrived. Instead…_

"…this time you have overstepped your authority…!"

…_it was a mess, Alyce. I thought we had left all of that behind us by defeating the Blight…"_

"…well within my authority to keep the occupants of this Tower safe…!"

_I can't help but think this might be some of my doing…_

"…by harassing one of my Mages, Greagoir?"

_On the other hand, we have not one, but _three _possible recruits to the Grey Wardens…I'm rather excited about that…_

"I would hardly call a brief chat _harassment, _Irving!"

_You won't believe who one of them is…_(here was a fairly-well rendered depiction of what appeared to be King Alistair looking very surprised).

"And since when did you enjoy an afternoon's 'chat' with a _Mage_?"

_I wanted to ask you here for a visit, but I fear we will be a bit too busy to entertain visitors for a while. I am hoping though, that we can sort this all out and I can see you soon…_

"It happens from time to time!"

_Truth be told, I could really use someone of your skills right now, Lyce…_

"I must remember to look out of the window this evening then. Perhaps the moon will be blue or I might sight a flock of flying nugs…"

"Was that _sarcasm, _Irving?"

"Sarcasm? Maker forbid I should attempt sarcasm on _you, _Greagoir. I wouldn't know what to do with myself…"

"Hrmph…"

"I _will _get to the bottom of this, Greagoir," Irving concluded, his voice no longer whimsical, one finger pointing dagger-like at the Knight Commander. Having finished reading Neria's letter, Alyce looked up.

"Whose bottom are we talking about?" she asked, arriving fashionably late to the conversation.

The First Enchanter folded his arms across his chest, regarding his Templar equivalent with a challenge in his eye. "A very disturbing rumour has been circulating about you," Irving told Alyce, who shot up, gripping the back of her chair with wide, innocent eyes.

"It wasn't me!" she denied immediately.

"No…" Irving replied, a touch of his humour returning. "I can't imagine why _you _would want to spread rumours about _yourself _being under consideration for the Rite of Tranquility."

"Well of course not, I…_what?_" Alyce stared at the First Enchanter in disbelief. "Tranquil? Me?" She glanced back at the Knight Commander. "Wait, does this have anything to do that little incident in Denerim with the sausages on a stick and that dwarven merchant? If so, I was hardly involved and in any case, he didn't _really _inhale..."

"What incident?" Greagoir asked sharply.

"Oh, nothing. Not important. Really," Alyce assured him hastily, wishing not for the first time that her brain would wake up _before _her mouth did.

Irving sighed, regarding the young Mage with pursed lips. It had been a good thing, he told himself, that he gotten other Mages to observe her behaviour; other people that she had known well since her arrival at the Circle of Magi; people he could trust for their honest opinions. He had yet to form a firm opinion of his own, but his instincts had never failed him.

Sometimes, a Mage could be their own worst enemy…

Knight Commander Greagoir snorted his own opinion of Enchanter Amell. He was nothing, if not an eloquent man…"Rest assured Irving, that I will be investigating the source of these rumours _myself_."

"I am glad to hear it," Irving said deceptively quiet. Meanwhile, Alyce sat deep in thought. To be quite honest, she had wondered about being made Tranquil herself. Owain was such a…peaceful person and since Keilli had undergone the Rite, she was so much less worried about everything. It would have been nice…never to be angry or afraid ever again. The only thing was…Tranquil, were…_too_ serene. Creepily so. She didn't want to be that creepy. Being annoying was good enough for her.

Still…"Why?" Alyce asked. "Why would anyone do that? Oh nug-butts…it wouldn't be the Abom-Wynne-ation, would it?"

"Enchanter Amell!" Irving exclaimed. Wagging his finger at her, he added, "I remind you that the _Senior _Enchanter is a well-respected member of this Circle, a valuable Mage and your superior."

Alyce made a rude noise, uncaring that she did it at the First Enchanter and in the presence of the Knight Commander. "Irving, she's dead," she reminded him simply. "Technically she doesn't exist and good Fade Spirit or not, it's still _possession…_" As Irving passed a weary hand across his wrinkled face, she added, "…and I absolutely refuse to sit in an unventilated room with her. Lucky this is winter. I can't imagine what she's going to be like in the middle of summer..."

"Amell…"

"Bits hanging off her…blowflies…Awkward dinner conversations…That scotch egg you're eating _might _not end up being what you think it is…"

"_Amell…!_"

"…could be an eyeball…bit of spleen…Who's to know?"

The First Enchanter sighed wearily. "May we please return to our original topic of discussion?" he asked, half-pleading, half-exasperated.

"These letters," the Knight Commander waved a gauntleted hand towards the sheets of paper currently being held up helpfully by Alyce. "Were received this morning, Irving, along with this highly suspicious barrel of some kind of _liquid._"

Alyce slipped off the chair, walking around the side of Greagoir's desk to inspect his suspicious barrel of 'liquid'. Why was he so worried about it? It wasn't even a full-sized one. In fact it looked like the dwarf-sized ones she'd seen decorating the counter at the Gnawed Noble. Those hadn't even held any kind of liquid, but dried tree nuts that the Noble's publican had dispensed to customers with slightly heavier pants. She bent down to have a closer look, rolling it around on its base to see whether there were any labels or identifying marks on it. There didn't appear to be any, until she'd tipped it upside down completely and then she spied, on the inside edge of the base, a very faint etching.

Lighting her hand with fire, she peered more closely at the writing.

"It says 'Greenfell Arms'," she told both men, sitting back on her haunches and frowning. "But the writing is very faint. Either it's been worn away," she shrugged, thinking it highly unlikely, as the writing was in an area that wouldn't be in contact with anything, "or someone deliberately tried to erase all evidence of its origin."

"Most interesting…" Irving murmured, kneading his beard in thought. "Would anyone have done this at the Tower, I wonder…or somewhere else?"

Alyce didn't much care. All she cared about was Neria's disturbing letter about the darkspawn in Amaranthine. Neria had said 'no visitors' and she didn't want to place any undue burden on her friend by being in a place where she might get in everyone's way, but…Neria _did _also say that more magic-users would be useful…Was her friend trying to tell her something without actually having to state it, she wondered? _Yes, it's a bit awkward to ask, but I could really use some help dealing with it all_? It wasn't as if Neria couldn't handle things herself. She did after all, raise a massive army, return a ruler to the country and defeat a Blight…It was hardly the actions of someone who was inept and useless.

Exhaling a breath, she reached for the other letter. She would have to think this over, moving out of the way as the Knight Commander and First Enchanter inspected the barrel themselves.

"First Enchanter…" Alyce said after a while. She handed the letter to Irving as the elderly Mage looked up. "I think this meant to be for you or the Knight Commander."

It was a letter within a letter. The smaller piece of parchment had been in an unknown hand, but the name signed at the end was familiar. The accompanying, larger piece had the symbol of Andraste watermarked upon it and Irving frowned deeply at this as much as the contents of it. When he finished, he passed them both to the impatiently hovering Knight Commander.

After reading, Greagoir stared at a point somewhere beyond the edge of the parchment, mental calculations causing steely eyebrows to knit bobble hats across his forehead.

"I cannot spare the men…" he said eventually.

"You will not need to spare anyone," Irving sighed. "But I cannot, in all conscience, ignore this request." He turned to Alyce, his heart and expression heavy. Ferelden had not recovered from the Blight. Many were still rebuilding; many areas still uninhabitable due to tainted lands. An outbreak of disease was certainly not what the country needed. "You know what to do, Enchanter Amell…"

Alyce nodded. Turning away to carry out the First Enchanter's unspoken instructions, the image of a small, sick child being dragged along the North Road by his desperate family loomed dark and depressing in her mind…

-oo-

He was ill. Of that he was sure. He had not been this ill before, apart from the odd sniffle and never anything worse than a head cold. Being a resident of the Tower of Magi had its perks. Healers were always close to hand with a handy tonic or cure to soothe a sore throat or remove the hammers from the inside of one's head. There was no such relief to be found here. Tired of lying on his overheated back, Ser Ryan rolled over onto his side, every muscle protesting and bones feeling like splintery wood inside his skin. He appeared to have lost the ability to articulate his joints. Hearing a thunk nearby, followed by a wooden rattling, he attempted to open his eyes. The clink of ceramic and the sound of flowing water gave him a sudden urge to relieve himself.

With great effort, he opened his eyes the rest of the way and pushed himself upright.

"Hail, sleeping beauty…" For some reason, Aidan Cousland sat beside his bed, boots resting on the bedside table, mug in hand. He extended it towards the bleary-eyed ex-Templar.

"Mother prepared it," he explained briefly. "Used to make it for us when we were children. She tells me it has apples in it, but don't be surprised if you can't taste any. Took me the better part of fifteen years to realise she'd been lying…"

Ser Ryan continued to haul himself upright. Pushing off the bedclothes, a chill swept over his sweat-dampened skin. Shivering, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders, hunching into its warmth. Cousland thrust the mug into his face again. "You had better drink it while it's still warm," he recommended. "The sooner you get better, the less my ears are going to get chewed off by everyone."

Despite himself, Ser Ryan smiled. Taking the mug with murmured thanks, he downed its contents in a single drink. Lowering the mug, he found Cousland gawping at him in awe.

"Brave man…" he muttered. Retrieving the mug, he eyed the dregs with an impressed eye. "No coughing, spluttering or moans for help. I'm impressed."

Ser Ryan grimaced, thinking of the brews from various Mage Healers he'd had the displeasure to experience over the years. He knew Senior Enchanter Wynne's Apprentice Healer had followed in her mentor's footsteps in continuing the fine tradition of concocting vile but highly effective potions. The one and only time Alyce had mixed something for him, she had put rum and lemon in it...It had whisked his sore throat away and he'd been able to breathe, but he had the Maker of all hangovers by the evening…"I've had worse…"

"Oh?" Cousland asked a little too casually. "Amell used to make these sorts of tonics for you all the time, did she?"

"No," Ryan responded, slightly short of breath. "Enchanter Amell's ability lies more in the region of blowing things up."

"Well, she did a bloody good job on father, let me tell you," Cousland told him rather aggressively.

"I didn't say she was a bad healer…" Ryan pointed out calmly; Cousland glaring at the wall behind the bedside table in response. As Ser Ryan felt a change in subject might be a welcome distraction he added, "I appear to have lost track of time…What day is it today?"

"You've been in and out of your own little world for the better part of the last two days," Cousland said, flexing his hands. "Actually, we wondered whether you'd contracted the Fever too."

Ser Ryan frowned. "Fever?"

"Red Fever," Aidan told him. "There have been quite a few cases in the area. I wa…Mother was worried. Along with the weird things happening in Amaranthine, we've been wondering whether our woes are ever likely to come to an end." Aidan let this piece of information sink in. The man sitting on the bed before him looked like tepid death; haggard and hollow-cheeked, but his recovery would not come too soon for Aidan. Other, more complex feelings he'd begun to harbour aside…he had missed Ser Ryan's company the last two days as much for his critical opinions as well as his company. His worry over Alyce had not abated. If anything it had intensified while Ryan had been unwell, unable to come up with any ideas for spiriting Alyce away before this Tranquillisation process…schemes that would not involve embarrassing himself, his family or his lieutenant, in any case.

And…No doubt in the coming days and weeks Ser Ryan's experience with darkspawn – if the rumours were true – would be needed again.

"We've not received particularly detailed reports," Cousland continued to explain gravely. "Fergus will be visiting Amaranthine next week for the swearing in ceremony and will hopefully learn more. It seems that the Grey Wardens from Orlais have gone missing or some such thing. After the whole mess with Teyrn Mac Tir and the last king, other rumours – nastier ones – are beginning to emerge...mostly revolving around how the old General might have been right about allowing _Orlesians _back into the country and that Vigil's Keep have acted as a staging point for…_re-invasion, _espionage…" At this point Aidan stood. He began to pace the length of the room.

"They're ridiculous and unfounded. We _know _where the rumours are originating," he added with a derisive snort. "After all that slimy bastard Howe did in this area, there are still raving lunatics who continue to support him."

Aidan paused mid-step, running a hand through his already-mussed hair.

"It appears I have missed much in the last few days," Ser Ryan commented softly...and he needed to return to his family. Maker knew how they fared…He hoped they were all of them still well, especially if there was an outbreak of Red Fever in the area.

"Huh…" Aidan turned back. "Conspiracy; the threat of darkspawn, unrest in the Bannorn and random outbreaks of disease? Meh…it's business as usual in Ferelden…" _All that's missing are dragon attacks and frogs falling from the sky and we'd be pretty much on target…_he added in his head.

"And…" Aidan said, staring at the floor, "…it's been…since we heard about Alyce…I'm worried."

"My lord," Ser Ryan began wearily. "We've already…"

"I know what you said!" Aidan snapped impatiently. "And I think you're wrong. If you cared just the smallest bit, you would be heading over there _right _now to see whether she's alright. Not…_trusting _in some tenuous, flimsy idea about her reputation! Bad things have happened to good people, Ser Ryan. My nephew and my brother's wife didn't _ask_ to be slaughtered in their sleep, but they were! Alyce might not _have _a chance to defend herself and for all either of us know, she might already be…

"I was going to help you. I know she cares for you; I saw that much when she was in Highever, when you'd been injured. Even though she was angry at you…" He gave a shake of his head; another snort of derision. "I thought I could help bring the two of you together; make you come to your senses…but I've _changed_ my mind."

Rounding on Ser Ryan, he jabbed an aggressive finger at him, "I'm not going to do it," he informed the ex-Templar in clipped, angry tones. "Because I'm not going to let you have her. If you won't fight for her then…you don't…you don't _deserve_ her!"

Ser Ryan rose slowly and shakily to his feet. Pulling the blanket more tightly around his shivering shoulders, he looked Aidan Cousland in the eye. "On that score, my lord," he told the younger man. "We are agreed…No, I don't deserve Alyce…" _Nor am I ever likely to…_

-oo-


	39. Pieces of the Puzzle

-oo-

**Chapter 39 – Pieces of the Puzzle**

"This is the last of them…"

Petra looked down at the talking crate. If it weren't for the two bright blue eyes peeking above the top of it, she would have thought someone had magically animated the crates to pack themselves. As she relieved Apprentice Dagna of her load, she caught sight of Alyce across the field. The tall Mage waved at her. Her hands full, Petra only managed a wiggle of a couple of fingers, returning her attention to the diminutive woman before her.

"Are you sure, you won't come with us?" Petra asked wistfully.

Dagna grinned gratefully at the red-haired Mage. Most Apprentices and Mages barely acknowledged the pint-sized girl, finding her addition to the Tower of Magi an affront to the Circle. As if it wasn't bad enough to be found capable of magic and shunned by society, the Circle had to place amongst them an individual _immune _to most forms of it. The occupants of the Tower didn't need someone like that in their midst, thumbing her nose at them. Not that Dagna had _ever _thumbed her nose at anyone…frequently.

Petra, like Alyce, was _different. _Once Dagna had demonstrated a talent for botanical identification and potion-mixing, the healer had been enthusiastic in showing the dwarf more advanced forms of medicinal alchemy. Dagna had taken to it like a shark to open water.

"I'm sure we could accommodate you…" Petra added, throwing a hopeful look across the field.

"Well, true, I'm not likely to take up much space…" Dagna said thoughtfully. "But I promised Alyce I'd stay." As Petra's face fell, she added hastily, "Tell you what. Next time there's an outbreak of disease in the country, I'll be sure to accompany you…"

Petra stared at the dwarf, coppery eyebrows drawn downwards. "You've been spending far too much time with Alyce Amell…"

"Who's been spending too much time with me?" Alyce asked, jogging to a stop before them. "Deane and Kinnon are all packed up and Sers Travis and Wardley are ready to go," she told them both. "Ser Wardley _especially…_" Alyce added with a grimace. "The further away from the Orlesian Templars, the happier he'll be, I think," she said, referring to the newest arrivals to the Tower. In fact, there had been quite a few new Templars that had arrived in recent weeks; two from the Free Marches, one great beast of a man from the Anderfels and a handful from Orlais. While the Marchers kept mostly to themselves and Ser Wolters the Chantry Chapel, the Orlesians were another thing altogether. Alyce had never met such an unfriendly, snooty lot, wondering whether all Orlesians were like that or just the Templars.

Neria's Orlesian friend had certainly seemed…_friendly…_

Petra gave a sigh…and a hug to both Mage and Apprentice.

"Just be safe, all of you," Alyce warned her. "And if you come across Lord Aidan Cousland, zap him for me, will you?"

"Or you can kiss him, if you prefer…" Dagna giggled, earning herself a gentle cuff around the ear from her mentor's elbow. Resigning herself to leaving the Spoiled Princess' mustering yard without Amell _and _her very efficient Apprentice, Petra climbed into the rear wagon, settling herself in amongst the crates. From her pocket, she withdrew a plain-parchment covered book and clutching it to her chest, waved her farewell to her two colleagues. Alyce waved back, thumping the side of the wagon to signal Ser Travis that the last of his cargo had been loaded. With a cluck of his tongue, the Templar urged the horses forward and the group began plodding its way across the field towards the gates.

Dagna and Alyce followed, still waving, until the wagons, Mages and Templars disappeared over the hill. Turning back towards the dock, Alyce felt a touch on her arm. She looked down into a pair of concerned eyes.

"Are you sure about this Alyce?" Dagna asked softly.

"I have a lot of work to do," Alyce told her simply. "With all my rabbiting about the countryside, I've fallen behind. It will be good to be able to catch up."

"Work…" Dagna sighed. "What about play? Even smiths allow themselves some down time. It's not all 'hi ho, hi ho', banging about at all hours of the day…"

Alyce regarded Dagna's twinkling eyes reproachfully. "Oddly enough, young Dagna, I do get the _impression _you're not talking about working with metal…"

"Going at it hammer and tongs…" Dagna added cheekily, as Alyce threw up her hands and simply walked away. "…Keeping the forge fires burning…!" Dagna called after her. "Blowing the bellows…"

"W-will you...!"

"Working the iron until it's good and…!"

"Not listening!" Alyce clamped both hands around her ears, increasing her pace towards Kester's boat. "La, la, la!" Unfortunately she had to remove her hands from her head in order to make her way safely into the boat. After all this time, she still felt _weird _around large, natural bodies of water. Placing herself dead centre, she reached out, gripping the sides with nervous hands, crying out in alarm as Dagna leapt in, causing the boat to rock violently. Kester was still in the Spoiled Princess, collecting the last of the mail for the Tower, so the two of them had to wait; Alyce squeezing her eyes shut until the boat had stopped moving. She opened them again to find Dagna leaning over the side.

"Ooh…There's something down there with great big tentacles…!"

Alyce's hand shot out, grabbing a handful of collar to haul Dagna back into the boat. "Is doing…_it_ the only thing that dwarves ever think about?" she asked, watching Dagna stretch her legs out before her, wiggling her feet.

"Sure, we think about other stuff too," Dagna responded, casting her gaze upwards. She tapped a cheek, contemplating the grey sky. "There's…killing, hacking and maiming other dwarves _and_ darkspawn…We think about _that_ alot…hm…drinking…killing stuff _other _than dwarves and darkspawn…Eating, perfecting belching the dwarven national anthem on a single pint and…ooh, let me see…oh yeah, _sex_…Lots and lots of…"

"Don't say the 'S' word!" Alyce hastily shushed her. "People might be listening…they might get the wrong idea…"

Dagna chuckled mercilessly. "What and Stone forbid think _you…?_"

"Well I don't," Alyce told her, folding her hands primly in her lap and directing her gaze to glare at the Spoiled Princess and Kester within…taking his own sweet time to arrive…

"Even 'Divine Ryan'," Dagna sang. "Betcha you'd _love_ to…"

"Lines!" Alyce announced, piercing the air with a righteously affronted finger. "Five hundred lines by dinner time on the magical uses of…_parchment_!"

"Aww…_Alyce…_" Dagna groaned.

"Don't you 'aw Alyce' me, young woman!" Alyce changed the angle of her finger to wag at the pouting dwarf. She visited the idea of asking Dagna how she had come upon that particular nickname for Ser Ryan, but decided she didn't really want to continue splashing messily down this particular stream of conversation.

"Anyway…" she turned serious. "Miss 'I've read Forty-bum Kebab several times already'…How's your Tevinter?"

"That's _For-tee-kum Keh-dahb_," Dagna corrected her. "And for your information my Tevinter's doing much better since I applied that salve twice a day…thanks for asking."

Alyce rolled her eyes. The narrow double doors to the Spoiled Princess clattered open. Kester appeared, sack thrown over his shoulder. He was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, so clearly he'd been held up by an inconvenient encounter with a tankard of ale. Even with his shambling steps, he would be here in a couple of minutes, so Alyce leant forward, lowering her voice. "I might have a…small project for you."

Thoroughly enjoying herself, Dagna leant forward too. "Does it involve…" she looked once over her right shoulder, then threw a look over her left…."The 'S' word…?" she asked.

Alyce grinned. "Spell?" she offered. "Oh yes." She sat back, all humour gone. "I'll explain more when we're back at the Tower," she told the younger woman as Kester had arrived by then, tossing the mail bag into the boat before untying the ropes. "It's…I've been thinking about this one and I have some rather _odd _pieces of a puzzle I'm hoping you can help me fit together." She stopped talking abruptly, gripping the sides of the boat again as Kester joined them, the world dipping from side to side far too much for her liking. "We'll just…At the Tower…" Alyce added indistinctly through gritted teeth, squeezing her eyes shut once more.

Dagna leant forward as Kester began guiding the boat away from the jetty. She poked one of Alyce's eyelids with a curious finger. It was as tense as a bow-string and the Mage's skin was starting to turn slightly green…

"Now, Miss…" Kester assured them in a gentle voice. "Don't you fret. We'll be at the Tower before you know it, safe and sound…"

"Unless the tentacled things get us first," Dagna added thoughtfully, leaning over the side once more to observe the slithering shapes under the hull. "Ooh! Look Alyce, a _big _one…! I think I see teeth! I've never seen _teeth _on a tentacle before…"

-oo-

The bulky shadow darted from tapestry to tapestry, ducking quickly behind a large stone plinth at the sound of shuffling footsteps. It was only a Tranquil; checking the lamps for sufficient oil. He paused too close to the statue of Andraste where the shadow hid, causing him to shrink even further into the corner. A quiet clink and the Tranquil turned, resuming his inspection of the other lamps along the long curved corridor. It wasn't until the Tranquil had disappeared completely around the curve of the wall, that the shadow unfolded itself, tip-toeing with exaggerated silence the rest of the way.

His destination was the small room by the Harrowing Chamber stairwell; normally used for the storage of miscellaneous cleaning equipment. The shadow sidled up to the door. He looked cautiously over his shoulder before raising his hand and knocking twice in quick succession. He counted to three then knocked once again. The softest of metallic whines indicated the door opening barely an inch.

"What's the password?" asked a hushed voice from within.

"Nitpick!" the shadow said quickly. The door opened and the shadow stepped through. The door closed behind the arrival. The key turned in the lock and the darkened hallway returned once more to its deep, still quiet.

Within the closet, there was a quick shuffling as bodies rearranged themselves to accommodate the newcomer.

"Alright, alright…" the doorman raised his hands. "Let's settle down boys. We've only got a limited time before first inspection, so let's make this quick." Casting his gaze about the crowded space, the doorman made a count of heads. Five. It wasn't too bad for a first meeting, though if this kept up, they would have to find a new meeting place. This many large men in such a confined space had a potential for great tragedy. With this in mind, he unhooked a very large and very sharp scraper from the wall, pointing it at each man in the room.

"Right," he said, "first thing on the agenda. Any of you lads even _think _of passing wind in here, you get _this_ shoved up your proverbial, do I make myself clear?"

Four heads turned automatically to the last arrival.

"Eh?" Shadow looked up. From the recesses of his voluminous nightshirt, he produced a large glass jar. Opening the lid filled the cramped space with a familiar, pungent odour. "Anyone for a pickled onion?" Shadow asked. "I brought enough for everyone."

The jar disappeared as Doorman snatched it abruptly from Shadow's hand. Throwing another glare at his brother, he continued, "Anyway…We should start. First thing; we have to think of a strategy…_Yes_?"

Shadow had raised his hand. "Shouldn't we think of something to call ourselves?"

"What do you mean, 'call ourselves'? I think we know who we are already," Doorman frowned.

"No, I mean _secret _names, like them Bards in Orlais…"

"The whole point of this meeting," Doorman's frown deepened, "is to find some way to send these bloody Orlesians running back home to their _mamans_…"

"Yeah, but…What if we get discovered?" Shadow persisted in a worried tone. "What if we get caught and tortured for information? If we refer to each other by our _secret _names, then even if we get thrown onto the rack, all we'll be able to tell the torturer is the _secret _name and not our real name…"

Doorman glared at Shadow in disbelief. "We already know each other's names," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's the principle of the thing," Shadow insisted. "It'll be proper."

"Right then," said a cheerful voice in the corner. "If that's the case, henceforth I shall be known as Ima Nutt."

"That's the way!" Shadow exclaimed in approval. He turned to Doorman excitedly. "You can be…Eagle Pie or Running Hoof…" he told him.

Cheerful Corner snickered. Next to him, a dark-eyed lad still clad in his mail shirt nodded his approval. "Ivor Biggin, if anyone asks…"

"Will you lot stop encouraging him?" Doorman growled. He turned back to Shadow, scowling, "And we are _not _going to change our names, alright?" Doorman pinned each man in the room with a warning glare. "Now...in…_other _business, recent intelligence obtained at great risk by our inside man indicates our quarry is currently being stored in a secure area in the Knight Commander's personal quarters."

"Translation please!" Cheerful corner piped up.

"Yeah…" Mail-shirt added, with a sidelong look towards Shadow. "Some of us haven't managed past the letter 'C' in their Templar dictionary…"

Four voices hastily shushed Mail-shirt, who rolled his eyes, uncaring.

"You're not supposed to say the 'T' word!" Shadow rebuked him.

"Gentlemen, please!" Doorman raised his voice, just a little, his disapproving gaze sweeping over the gathered. "Can we…"His eyes finally registered what he had been seeing whenever they had rested on Shadow. "What the _Fade_ are you wearing, man?"

"Oh, this?" Shadow smiled, plucking at the material of his nightshirt. "My sister Augie sent it me this week. Says it's all the rage in Denerim."

"Why's it got butterflies all over it?" Doorman demanded.

"They're _Archdemons,_" Shadow explained patiently. "Not butterflies. It's a House of Herren _original…_"

"It's a…"

The door blasted open. All five men jumped to their feet; the scraper Doorman was holding landing with a loud, obvious clang onto the stone floor, narrowly missing his slippered feet. When the smoke cleared, it revealed an all too familiar glare, attached to an even more recognisable set of angry armour.

"Well now gentleman…" the Knight Commander smiled at them. To say that smile had disconnected itself from the elderly Templar's eyes was not quite accurate. It wasn't so much a disconnection as complete separation…one of them going on holiday without the other, hanging up a sign saying 'back in two weeks'…It was a smile that told every man standing before him that this time around, toothbrushes would _not _be distributed for the purpose of cleaning the outside privies…and that marching in the winter snow carrying full packs but wearing nothing but their small clothes would be the least of their worries.

"Would anyone like to explain what this is?" the Knight Commander growled.

"Oh," Ser Hanleigh spoke up before any of the other four could stop him. "Certainly Ser…This here's Running Hoof," he explained proudly, pointing at Ser Bran. Gesturing at the others, he added, "Ima Nutt, Ivor Biggun and…" Ser Hanleigh turned to the last Templar, while Ser Bran buried his head in his hands uttering a pained groan. "You haven't nominated a name yet, Ser Rufus…"

"Yes, Ser Rufus…" the Knight Commander's smile widened. "Do enlighten me…"

Flushing from the top of his already carrot red roots to the tip of his freckled nose, Ser Rufus grimaced. "Ina Pickle…" he said weakly.

"Hrmph," the Knight Commander snorted. "A gross understatement if I ever heard one…"

-oo-

"So…what do you think?" Alyce sniffed as she threw the last of Niall's notes into the small wooden box on the table. Staring expectantly at Dagna, she drew an ink-stained finger across her nose. It left a trail of smudged black across her upper lip.

Dagna frowned at the piles of parchment, half-rolled maps and partially eaten pork pies that were currently holding the maps open; pastry grease soaking into the carefully inked graphical depictions of Ferelden. "I don't know…" she said eventually. Her blue gaze descended southwards on the main map, travelling north-west in an arc to finally rest on the _east _side of the country. She lifted her hands helplessly. "I'm sorry…" she told Alyce. "I'm not too sure what kind of connection you want me to draw here."

Compressing her lips, Alyce surveyed the mess as Dagna had. _She was trying to tell me something…I just know it…_Straightening; she rested her arms along the edge of the map, one knee jiggling restlessly under the table. _Why is Neria so upset about something she's done…? _She scowled at the piece of pastry she'd torn off a pie to mark Ostagar. _Or perhaps…not done…? _Why did _Flemeth _take such an interest in the Grey Wardens that she sent her daughter to travel with them? And why did Senior Enchanter Wynne suddenly feel so attached to Neria Surana…when she had barely acknowledged either of them previously? For that matter, why go all the way to Denerim to deliver a message about Flemeth's…_diary…_and a vial of Archdemon blood when Wynne already knew about the old spellbook anyway and wouldn't do anything about the blood? Or…

The reasonable part of Alyce reminded her that the part about the Archdemon's blood was perhaps unfair. She herself knew how the old Warden Commander had had the Mages prepare the Joining potion, but…How many Grey Wardens had been recruited and inducted into the Order since they were allowed back into the country? How many Joinings had been performed? The Senior Enchanter had been around an awfully long time…How many potions had the old battleaxe helped to prepare?

Why did the two most junior Grey Wardens in Ferelden survive Ostagar? _How _did the two most junior Grey Wardens in Ferelden survive Ostagar?

"Flemeth…Grey Wardens…darkspawn…" Alyce muttered to herself…She turned to Dagna. "Hey, you're a dwarf…"

"Oh, you noticed…?"

"Now…I don't expect you to know everything," Alyce continued as though sarcasm had not occurred on her watch, "but…How much do you know about darkspawn?"

Dagna tipped her head to the side. "Well, they're ugly, they smell funny…and they're not particularly good conversationalists…"

"No, that's not…I didn't mean…" Alyce's other knee began to jiggle. "The dwarf clans live so close to the Deep Roads and the threat of darkspawn invasion all the time. Is there a specific education program that dwarven children have to undergo? How do you _know_?"

Dagna looked at the map again, then back up at the vibrating Mage sitting next to her. By now, Alyce's fingers were restlessly drumming her cheek, leaving light ink-marks on her skin. "Alyce," she began. "You're asking me why every dwarf child knows not to go wandering down tunnels they're not supposed to?" she asked. "Why we have an army that dies _before _going into battle? Why every good dwarf child eats up their greens or face the consequences of the darkspawn boogie-man dragging them away in the dead of night?"

"Legends…stories…" Alyce sighed. She forced herself to compose her limbs into stillness. Taking a breath, she jabbed a finger into the jagged caps and peaks of the Frostback Mountains. "Orzammar…" she said. Poking her finger next to the south of the map, she uttered, "Ostagar…Why Ostagar?" she asked. "Why did the horde appear _there _and not Denerim straight away?"

"You're serious?" Dagna stared wide-eyed at the tall Mage. "You're questioning the darkspawn's _strategy…?_"

"Alright then," Alyce sighed again. "So they work on pure instinct. Instinct tells them to find the most populous places where they can kill stuff, right? To keep searching until they find an Old God so they can taint it?" She looked up. Dagna made a seesawing motion with her hand. "Just go with me here…" Alyce pleaded. "What if…no…that just takes me back to my original question…I mean, supposing they were _looking, _but found it elsewhere and they just travelled, but…on the other hand, what if they _weren't _and turned up because this was where they were supposed to find it and…"

"_Alyce_…" Dagna slapped her hands over her mentor's, giving them a calming pat. "You know, you really have to stop vocalising these weird internal conversations with yourself, because no one can understand them and it's making my head hurt."

"How far do the Deep Roads extend under Ferelden?" Alyce asked suddenly.

Surprised by the question, Dagna blurted, "Everywhere."

"Everywhere?" Alyce queried. "Or just everywhere?"

"You're doing it again…" Dagna sang in warning. "But yeah…_everywhere…_Legend has it the Dwarven Kingdoms stretched throughout the length and breadth of Thedas, never mind just Ferelden. Your Grey Wardens found _two _lost Thaigs that I've heard of, including – allegedly – Caridin's Cross."

"Just two?" Alyce frowned.

"Ortan and Cadash, but there are dozens, perhaps hundreds more that have been overrun by darkspawn. Kal Hirol for example; every smith worth their lyrium pick have heard of that one, but to date no one's ever found it." Observing Alyce's expression, Dagna felt growing apprehension. "Why?"

Alyce simply shook her head in response. "I'm not too sure yet," she told Dagna, "but I think I need to find out…and that means a visit to our shiny new Warden Commander in Amaranthine." Involuntarily, Alyce's eyes rested on Niall's boxed notes. _It's about time I asked Neria some hard questions…_

"Via…_Highever_?" Dagna asked, slyly.

"No." Alyce stood up, gathering up the paperwork and shifting the pies so she could roll up the maps.

"But we could swing b…"

"Not Highever…" Alyce said quietly. "I'm done with Highever," she added in a tone of voice that repelled argument. "We'll find nothing there…"

-oo-


	40. Memory

A/N: I'm sure I said ten chapters ago I can't believe I'm at chapter 30…hm…Also again, apologies this has taken so long to update. I know I've been writing this in dribs and drabs. Chapters have been very much dependant on RL and my muse who goes frequently on holiday without telling me.

Also, if you're wondering where these versions of Sers Hanleigh and Bran came from…They emerged out of _Roxfox1962's_ _Inspired By _chapter on Senior Enchanter Torrin. Somewhere in amongst the grimness and the grief, these two chappies were sneaking around _in shot, _being…sneaky…as sneaky sneakers usually are…Because let's face it…would _you _trust a guy in an armoured maxi-dress?

-oo-

**Chapter 40 – Memory **

Senior Enchanter Torrin's eyes Alyce found; were brown. Not the black she always thought they were, but a deep, dark, burnt brown with slivers of coal in them. They also possessed a very unique ability…the ability to convey cool, superior sarcasm without any words having to leave his mouth. It was a damned good ability, she decided. Something she also discovered was that the man could outstare a dead lizard and that attempting to emulate another dead lizard without the requisite decades of experience was a really, really _bad _idea…Nails biting into the surface of the wooden desk with the effort of keeping her own eyes resolutely open, Alyce felt it her duty to at least try…For every Mage that had been born with tear ducts; for every Apprentice that had eyelids…For the good of the Circle of Magi...she…would…not…fail…

"Is there a point to this _piscine_ stare of yours, Enchanter Amell," Torrin sat back wryly…_unblinkingly. _"Or have you accidentally cast a paralysis spell on your face?"

"_Ngnn_…!" Alyce gritted her teeth, refusing to give in. She could see young Dagna at the very edge of her peripheral vision leaning forward eagerly; hands clenched; silently cheering on her mentor's efforts.

"My mind is unchanged," Torrin stated flatly. "While I do not doubt your enthusiasm or your dedication, your reasoning lacks…" He sighed. "_Reasoning…_Along with the disturbing reports of darkspawn in the area, I cannot in conscience authorise such an expedition at this time…Nor can I imagine what you truly intend to discover…"

Beside her, Dagna poked Alyce in the shoulder, in prompt of the supposedly well-rehearsed speech the Mage had prepared. Supposed, because Alyce had only prepared it in her head and in the face of Senior Torrin's basilisk stare, she had quickly come to realise that she had left those well thought-out, logical, convincing arguments in her other brain. All she had gone into battle with was her stubbornness and willpower, forgetting completely that Senior Torrin could out-stubborn an entire mountain range…_Andraste's sainted brassicas…my eyes really hurt…_she wanted to scream...Instead, all that emerged was a pathetic whimper.

"I really don't see why…Maker's breath, girl!" he exclaimed in exasperation, deep concern etched between his eyes. "You'll do yourself permanent damage!"

"Must…not…give…in…" Alyce whimpered again. "I…will…_ngn_…"

The table shuddered. Distracted, Alyce blinked and then having realised she had just blinked - thus breaking the record for staring down Torrin - her head fell to the table with a loud thud in frustration. "So close!" she cried into the wood. "I was _so_ close…!"

When she looked up, Senior Torrin had gotten to his feet and was gallantly holding open the door for the both of them. "Ah, well…a valiant effort nonetheless…Well done and all of that."

"You're being sarcastic."

"Me?" Torrin pointed to himself with wide-eyed innocence. "I've never been sarcastic in my life…And by the way…" He wagged his finger at her in mocking warning. "The Senior Enchanter is a…"

"_Well respected and valued member of the Circle of Magi_…" Alyce recited in a flat, bored voice in reference to their earlier topic of discussion. "Yes. I know. She's also a zombie. An undead. A re-animated corpse…A barely departed…A non-breather…Shall I go on?"

"Oh do," Senior Torrin said encouragingly. "I've no doubt you'll run out of descriptive phrases at some point in time…and the answer is still _no_. Once the Arling of Amaranthine has been declared danger-free, you may re-present your case for consideration."

"No one had any problem with sending me to Ostagar!" Alyce stamped her foot; a gesture Torrin noted with raised eyebrows. Biting her lip, Alyce's shoulders slumped. The foot-stamp had probably been the worst thing she could have done to advance her case. Instead of pointing out the obvious, she had just made herself look like a petulant two-year old who hadn't been allowed another slice of cake. It was almost…_almost _worth another foot stamp…

Turning, she and Dagna left the room. Torrin watched her go with a silent sigh. He closed the door, muttering under his breath. The faintest of scraping noises; like a mortar being ground very slowly and deliberately into a giant-sized stone pestle made him cast a look over his shoulder. He held up a hand, completing the spell to re-seal the door and set up the Silence Glyphs. Only when he was finished, did he face the other occupant of the room; a swarthy middle-aged elf, currently immersed in patting out spot fires from his scorched robes.

"You don't think she'll run, do you?" the Mage asked, with a tilt of his chin towards the closed door.

"Amell?" Torrin grimaced at the state of the elf Mage. "No. She's no Apostate." He paused, noting with a disappointed sigh, the small puff of yellowish-grey smoke rising from a hair-thin crack in the floor. "Shall I assume from your appearance this evening's batch has been a blazing success?" he asked the Mage. "Literally?"

"Ah…" the Mage snorted. "Blocked tubes," he explained. "Couldn't get to the number three valve in time. Damn near destroyed a third of the array…"

Torrin shook his head on this piece of news. Pursing his lips, he asked, "How soon until you can put in replacements?"

"At the rate we're going?" the Mage asked, in a slightly accented voice. "About a week give or take. Dependant, I'm afraid, on how quickly we can bring in the correct sizes this time."

_A week…_Torrin mulled this over in his head. Amell really had atrocious timing. Any other time and he would have jumped at the opportunity to send her gallivanting around the country. The more experience she had interacting with real people, the better…and the less time she spent under the First Enchanter's nose, the less trouble she was likely to land herself in. Of all things, she had developed a jaw-lock on Senior Enchanter Wynne; who happened to be in Amaranthine at the moment…tracking down some colleague or other to use as a foil for a Mages' gabfest in Cumberland. He himself had escaped being sent half-way across the Free Marches by a hairsbreadth to accompany her, although…Considering the still-smoking Mage standing before him, he wondered whether sending Amell to Amaranthine might be good timing after all…It would certainly have the added advantage of putting the wind up the First Enchanter's robes, not to mention…

He would like to accompany her too, being shut up in these cold stone walls for what seemed an _age…_but…Hm. Also for consideration; the upcoming festivities normally held at this time of the year. His preference was to be as far _away _from the Tower during Satinalia week as possible. The thought of having to thread exploded corn seeds onto string _endlessly_, listen to groups of Apprentices singing off-key in the corridors at all hours of the day and then have to sit through one of Irving's end-of-the-year, merry _staff dinners _filled him with quivering dread. He would rather be dining and dancing with darkspawn…especially now that those blasted Mages from Val Royeaux had joined them. If he had to sit next to Enchanter Augustin with his _Chantry this _and the divine _Divine that_, he was going to shove a flaming fireball down the man's throat.

Besides, he heard Amaranthine was rather nice this time of year…if a bit on the _fishy _side. _Well…_

"A week…" Torrin repeated quietly, one thumb stroking his beard in thought. The Mage gave him an expressive shrug. _What could we achieve in a week, _Torrin asked himself. It could be interesting after all…and he would save himself the effort of an inconvenient fireball…"Very well," he told the Mage with another nod. "Send your list to Merrick. No rush, I suppose..."

"And the sample?" the Mage reminded him.

Torrin smiled. _Now there was a plan that had lived spectacularly up to expectations…_"Secured," Torrin's smile widened. "It will be delivered to you this afternoon in the usual way."

"I am glad to hear it." The Mage clapped his hands together, eager to start. "I suppose I had better clean up that mess downstairs, eh?"

"Hm…" Torrin murmured, already addressing an empty space. Maker's blood, the man could move when he wanted to. It was just as well. One needed to move fast…especially if one wanted to remain exactly one step ahead of the First Enchanter…and those bloody Orlesians…

-oo-

"I wonder what made them change their minds..."

Alyce looked up from her perusal of Niall's notes to the dwarf sitting across from her, her eyes getting no further than the stack of books between herself and her Apprentice. Dagna had brought a fairly largish selection of the dwarven 'literature' Alyce had at first thought were serious studies on Dwarven culture and history. They had turned out to have slightly less educational value than a Chantry song book…and that was saying something. Those yellowed, always-sticky prayer books handed out by Lay people at local village Chantries across Ferelden were darned handy when used as neck rests, tinder or – in a pinch – to accompany one to the privy; the cheap parchment being just the right thickness not to tear at embarrassing moments and yet soft enough not to chafe. The only thing was, the ink tended to run and smear…

To be fair though, _Between a Rock and a Hard Thaig, Lady Dace's Unsignificant Other _and _Gone With the Lava Flow_ were probably better written and had more interesting _illustrations _per page than most Chantry-issued material. Alyce _stared…_You certainly wouldn't get _that _drawing past the Grand Cleric's Censors…

"_Alyce_…"

"Eh, what…?" Alyce realised she had been ogling the wood cut on Dagna's open page.

"Are you enjoying looking at dirty pictures?" Dagna asked slyly.

"Why? Did you drop it in the mud or something?"

Dagna gave a long, drawn-out sigh…A movement out of the corner of her eye made the dwarf shift her gaze suddenly. She winked up at the Templar standing close enough to see what the drawing in the book was; but not close enough so that it was obvious that he was _looking_.

"Hullo, Ser Hanleigh," Dagna called out. She closed the book and extended it towards the Templar - who for once, was not wearing his helm – with a smile. "Would you like to borrow this?"

Ser Hanleigh goggled, his skin flaring red and purple from the base of his neck to the top of his bare, domed head. Eyes fairly popping from their sockets, he shook his head violently, backing away…

Dagna sighed, gathering the books up and shoving them into the cloth bag. When she finished, she looked up to find Alyce giving her a very sharp look.

"What?" Dagna asked.

"I have no idea…" Alyce told her.

"Is that in answer to my previous question, or the one I just asked?" Dagna grinned.

"Both."

When she smiled, Alyce observed, propping her chin in her hand, Dagna's eyes turned into tiny, crinkled crescents on her face. It made her want to reach over and pinch the dwarf's cheeks, and mangle the common tongue in nonsensical utterances, but she restrained herself. Crying '_oosacuteliddlewoogiewoogieden…!' _to an adult dwarf who carried a hand-axe within full view at all times was probably inadvisable. Even if said axe-carrying dwarf was _Dagna…_

"You're thinking something weird again, aren't you?" Dagna accused her.

"Me? Don't be ridiculous!" Alyce exclaimed. "And it's…" Both women scrambled to their feet as the door to the inn blew open; a rush of frigid air causing even the blazing fire in the large central brazier to shiver and sputter in protest. It was Senior Enchanter Torrin and the other Templar. Neither man looked too happy, the end of Ser Anwyn's sentence drifting towards them across the smoky room.

"…cut across country…"

"What!" Senior Torrin snapped. "And make us look as though _we're _the ones running? We might be in the company of Templars, but these are no ordinary Soldiers of Andraste…"

"I saw her, Senior Enchanter," Ser Anwyn scowled, "…freshly dosed with lyrium is my guess. Once on the scent of an Apostate, they don't give up. The lyrium won't let them…"

Alyce stepped forward. "Who doesn't give up?" she asked.

"Templars," Senior Torrin explained. "They've set up a roadblock on the intersection between the Imperial Highway and The North Road, looking for an escaped Mage. They absolutely refuse to allow us to go on. Ser Anwyn suggested we cut south across the Bannorn to take The West Road towards Amaranthine instead."

"The _West Road?" _Alyce asked, not quite believing what she had just heard. "It passes awfully close to Lothering and…"

"Yes, yes, I am quite aware," Torrin cut her off impatiently. "I thought you weren't concerned about darkspawn."

"I'm not," Alyce folded her arms, sliding a pointed look towards young Dagna. "But...Torrin…the _Taint_. Very little of the land between The Brecilian Forest and The Hinterlands has been left uncontaminated. There are still reports of blighted animals in the area."

"We could always turn back…" Ser Anwyn suggested with little enthusiasm. "Or…we could take the lesser roads through the Bannorn…"

Torrin looked askance at Ser Anwyn and his suggestion. Both men knew it would add a great deal more distance and _time_ to their trip, travelling the circuitous route through the Bannorn, along with having to gain permission from every Bann and landholder to travel their lands. At this time of the year they could not afford to get trapped in the winter snows while waiting for permission, assuming every required Lord and Lady were at home to apply to and not already on their way to whatever winter holiday retreat nobles retreated to at this time of the year.

"How about waiting here until these Templars catch their Mage and then move on?" Alyce wondered out loud…_you won't believe who one of them is…Now why…?_ She frowned. Why had that particular sentence from Neria's letter appeared in her head? The coyly written line about prospective Wardens…was it triggered perhaps, by the mention of an 'escaped Mage'…?

When Dagna poked her in the back, Alyce looked up, realising Torrin was talking to her, the expression on his face acknowledging the fact that he knew she hadn't been paying attention.

"As welcome as the proprietor of this establishment has made us Alyce, I do not relish the thought of spending untold, wasted days awaiting the pleasure of a few lyrium-enraged Templars – no offence, Ser Anwyn…"

"None taken, Senior Enchanter."

"- to allow us passage across _free _countryside."

"We could always take a vote," a small voice said by Alyce's elbow.

"Not before dinner…" Ser Anwyn said, _his _attention straying towards Mistress Leaney's ample form emerging from the kitchen; bringing with her the heady perfume of hot stews, hearty soups, roasting meats and steaming gravy. There was even a hint; a promise of sweet pie lingering in the air. Torrin sighed.

"I think I would have to agree." He turned to Dagna. "Would you assist Ser Anwyn?" he asked, glancing towards Alyce. "We will secure a table in the meantime."

Dagna looked about the sparsely filled dining area of _The Thorny King _and shrugged. "Sure…"

Torrin watched Templar and Dwarf head towards Mistress Leaney and her blackboard; Ser Anwyn leaning down as though addressing a small child to speak with Dagna.

"Alyce…" Torrin began.

Thinking inevitable thoughts, Alyce sighed. "Free table in the far corner…" she told him with a jerk of her head. "And yes, I _know…_"

-oo-

"Maker, have you seen a drearier collection of dreary drearies?"

Ser Ryan looked over at the young man standing beside him. Lord Aidan had no reason to criticise. Dark circles of tiredness ringed his eyes, his lids heavy with lack of sleep. A scarf had been tied most unfashionably about his head and neck against the biting cold. He looked as dreary as the people he was describing. They had tried to keep the rooms here as warm as possible, but as the snows around the forest deepened, it was becoming more difficult to harvest firewood. Normally they would have collected enough by this time of the year, but no one had expected this many people in such a short space of time.

"It's like half the bloody Bannorn are here…!" Aidan hissed with a curl of his lip. "What the Fade are their Banns doing? Deporting them to Highever if they even so much as sneeze?"

"The Teyrna is generous…" Ser Ryan began, to be cut off by Lord Aidan's contemptuous snort.

"My mother's a soft touch when it comes to the sick and infirm." His eyes became suddenly arrested by a familiar figure crossing the room past the rows of laden cots. The woman's target was the silver-haired Teyrna and Mother Mallol standing opposite.

"She's fallen head over heels in love with your sister, though," young Cousland added appreciatively. He tossed an evil grin towards his lieutenant. "You needn't worry," he told Ser Ryan. "Your sister is…lovely, but she is a tad…older than I would normally prefer…"

"Good," Ser Ryan told him, eyebrow rising. "Because I would fear for your life otherwise."

Aidan tossed a long look over his shoulder at Ser Ryan's sister, Morwenna. "I think I've just changed my mind. I do _like _the feisty ones…"

"…_Ryan_…isn't it?"

Both Ser Ryan and Lord Aidan turned at the tentative, enquiring voice. The woman wore the robes of a Chantry Sister, a thick shawl tied about her shoulders. Ser Ryan could not help staring; apologising profusely for doing so. The Sister laughed, waving off his apologies. "It's quite alright," the woman told him. "It should be me who should apologise, speaking out of turn, but I thought I recognised you." She gave him an appraising look of her own. "I knew the Tremaynes were still in the area, but I thought you'd gone away. You…" she laughed again. "You're a lot taller and broader than I remember."

Her hair, Ser Ryan suddenly recalled, had been a fiery red. It was now snow-white and pulled back into a tightly-coiled braid at the back of her head. The current picture was a great deal more angular than the one from his memory, but the years had clearly been kind. Though her face was lined, her eyes remained young, twinkling back at him with good humour in that deep, clear moss-green that had beguiled his fourteen year old self.

He realised with a great deal of embarrassment that he could not for the life of him remember her name…Something to do with music…?

Extending her hand, she reminded him gently, "Sister Melody."

"Unusual," Lord Aidan commented, tactfully not snickering.

"My mother had a very strange sense of humour," Sister Melody informed the scarf-wrapped Lord.

"Well, she could have named you Viola, or Pianoforte, I suppose," Aidan pointed out thoughtfully. "Lute…that would be a cute name for a girl, along with Harp…ey…" At this point, he caught Ser Ryan's firmly raised eyebrow and clamped his mouth closed. Sister Melody however, was amused, chuckling at his suggestions.

"Yes. Exactly," she agreed. "Well," she smiled radiantly; almost beatifically at both men. "I had better continue my rounds…" Touching Ser Ryan's sleeve gently, she added, "I am glad to have met you again, Ryan…"

"_Ser_ Ryan," Aidan helpfully informed her. "Lieutenant, actually. Possibly Captain…General, we're thinking of making him…You know, because he's so dedicated and manly and…" He caught Ser Ryan's other eyebrow and closed his mouth with an audible pop. Ser Ryan bowed – and after having stepped surreptitiously on his Lord's foot – Lord Aidan remembered to bow too, Sister Melody continuing on her way about the room, tending to the sick and bringing succour to the suffering…Before she was well out of earshot, Aidan gave a low whistle.

"Is _that _the snapping turtle?" he asked.

Ser Ryan startled, then nodded.

"Andraste's smoking cheese-platter…I think I've just revised my 'older woman' policy," he muttered. "Along with my views about religion."

Ser Ryan scowled at the younger man. "My Lord, I really don't think…"

"Yeah, I wouldn't think either. Bloody Fade, man if _that _broke my heart; I'd be running full-pelt to swear my loins to Grand Cleric myself…"

"That's not quite…" Ser Ryan began then paused, kicking himself mentally. He turned instead towards the group of Mages. "Never mind."

-oo-


	41. Fly in the Ointment

A/N: A grey, rainy Sunday…all my chores are done…and I can sit down and write...Weelll, sort of.

-oo-

**Chapter 41 – Fly in the Ointment**

It had started, fairly innocently enough.

_Is this what you call a 'season', Alyce…? All this cold stuff on the ground, like shaved ice…Ancestors, I'm not too sure I like it…_

It had been out of necessity.

_Has anyone seen the dwarf? She was here a moment ago…No, look in that snow drift over there…I'll check over here…Found her! Thought it was a bit of unseasonal carrot, but it's the Apprentice!_

It had been cold. They had needed warmth.

_M-m-m-my…j-j-j-aws hef fgn s-s-s…lid…_

A fire spell, carefully used. Every Mage Apprentice learned basic elemental spells as early as possible, along with the _One Hundred and One Uses of Elfroot. _An experienced Mage could cast a warming puff with nary a squint of effort.

_Is she supposed to be that blue colour? P'raps it's a dwarven thing…_

No one had told her – least of all the dwarf – that her favourite Mage staff had been '_enhanced' _with lyrium.

_Dagna? Dagna! How many fingers am I holding up? No, don't answer that, just blink! Andraste's simmering sauce pot! She's frozen solid!_

No one had told the dwarf that her Mentor's favourite Mage staff had _already _been enhanced with lyrium. Quite a lot of it in fact.

_RUN! Ooh! Hot, hot, hot, hot! Is my arse on fire? Maker's breath, my arse is on fire! Put it out, put it out, put it out!_

Communication, the sooty, scorched travellers from the Tower of Magi reflected later, in a more peaceful, unlit moment, had definitely been _lacking _recently…

-oo-

Senior Enchanter Torrin pulled the fur-lined hood of his thick winter coat lower as he stood amongst the swirling snow, surveying the ragged evidence of their passage across the wastes of the Ferelden countryside. He sighed deeply; a gust of mist obscuring the depressed lines on his face briefly before being carried away by the wind. He involuntarily entertained images of confused farmers scratching their heads come springtime, wondering what had caused the random circles of _brown _across their lands. Stray Darkspawn? A locust swarm with a bad sense of direction?

"Look, I said I'm sorry…" a voice said behind him, deservedly embarrassed.

"So did I…" another, slightly chirpier voice added alongside the first.

"And it'll never happen again. Mages honour."

"Uh…dwarf's honour too…Smith…_ex_-Smith-caste's honour…um…"

Torrin squinted at the landscape laid out before him, all too visible from the woodland at the top of the hill.

"Look, Senior Torrin, I'm really, really…" A growl, deep and menacing reverberated from within the Senior Enchanter's chest. Alyce stopped talking; flinching when Torrin snatched his own Ironwood staff from his back and brandished it high. A burst of white-blue flame exploded from the carved dragon's head…three-four-five…in such rapid succession it left his spectators breathless. Steam rose; snow and ice disintegrated as the land erupted in geysers of melted soil and dormant vegetation.

He turned, allowing the still warm dragon head to fall against the young Mage's shoulder. Next to her, her tiny Apprentice's eyes grew round as coins.

"Ooh…!" This from the dwarf.

"Ss…" was all Alyce could manage.

"Young people…" Senior Torrin sighed tragically. "No _flair_…No style…most disappointing." And then he left, leaving the two women gaping at the sight below them. A clink of armour, slightly fused from heat, the still steaming Ser Hanleigh came to see what the Mages were up to.

"Ooh! Pretty flower!" he exclaimed. "It was all brown and dotty before. Now it's all nice. I think I rather like it."

Dagna sidled closer to her silent mentor. After a moment's more of empty air, the dwarf nudged Alyce's hip. "You okay?" she asked. Alyce nodded, inclining her head better to view the older Mage's handiwork. Senior Torrin's magic had rearranged the darkspawn corpses to form the stamens of the flower in the field below. She would never have thought of doing that…On the other hand, she hadn't been thinking much of anything else but emergency-defrosting Dagna…She hadn't _meant _to cause a firestorm…well not so much 'a' firestorm, but…several…

"And that darkspawn," Ser Hanleigh chuckled. "They're not so scary when they're all burnt and crispy!"

Alyce frowned, less artistic thoughts settling heavily in her mind. Those darkspawn fricasees below represented the fourth encounter with the creatures since the group had turned south onto The West Road. They were now slightly more than two-thirds of the way to the Arling of Amaranthine. They had passed Lothering…very quickly. Even after all this time, there were still ravaged, half-eaten corpses of what used to be villagers hanging from jury-rigged gibbets on the approach to the village itself. Scattered throughout the greyish, diseased-looking piles of ice and snow were more corpses and discarded belongings, as well as the remains of wild animals; tainted while attempting to 'dispose' of the dead. Lothering had once been a bustling mining town; green and lush, one of the last outposts of civilisation before the untamed wildernesses of the southern lands. Now, it was barely a skeleton, all traces of its booming industry wiped with a blackened sweep…and the _smell_…

"Well…" Dagna had attempted to quip in the heavy silences as the group passed. "Smells just like home. I'm almost homesick…"

Alyce had looked down into the dwarf's pale face and had steered her resolutely onwards with a hand on her shoulder. Dagna, she realised, may have grown up with stories of these awful beasties, but what were the chances she had been isolated from actual encounters with them? As expected, Dagna had remained uncharacterically quiet until they had stopped to make camp that evening. Alyce found her some time after the evening meal, crying quietly to herself. Having some inkling of what Daga might be going through, the Ostagar Mage had sat with her arm around her Apprentice; until Dagna had stopped shaking and had begun to breathe a little more normally.

"Aren't you afraid, Alyce?" Dagna had asked, her voice hoarse with tears.

Alyce had thought of Ostagar…and Denerim…and everything in between. Blood Mages in the Tower had been the worst in her opinion.

"Terrified," Alyce admitted. "But a Mage…" she had added practically, "must learn to control their emotions. Fear. Anger…it makes us more vulnerable to possession."

"So you have to learn how to be Tranquil…sort of?" Dagna asked, her forehead puckering in thought.

"'Sort of'," Alyce had agreed. "With me…it…I kind of stop thinking about _me._ I just think of the spells, what I have to do. This group of Hurlocks here…that Ogre over there…a soldier beside me needs healing...Things happen so fast, it makes it easy to concentrate on more important things."

"But there are other emotions," Dagna continued, finding comfort in questions and answers.

"Happiness you mean?" Alyce asked. Dagna nodded.

"Love…Contentment…" the dwarf elaborated.

Alyce snorted. "I've never heard of a _happy _Mage being possessed, that's for sure. Just the crotchety ones. Those who aren't content with their lot…_huh._" She'd stretched out her legs, the backs of her boot heels gouging the softened earth, thinking of the Abom-Wynne-ation. She would never have called Wynne a _happy _person as such. Perhaps it was an old person thing…? On the other hand, she couldn't imagine Irving or Torrin taking the same path as Wynne. Would _she_ ever do the same thing? Did it come down to the old 'am I really happy with my life' question in the end? Faced with the fleshless, scythe-wielding One, when asked 'Can I die now, knowing I'm okay with what I've done so far?' a 'yes' would follow?

_Maybe_.

_Few things I'd like to sort out first…But…_

"Power," Alyce had told her. "Mages have power. They also have limitations – and limitations on the power they have. It's all enforced and controlled for the good of society and all of that, but – and I know some Mages who would disagree with me - the power we wield…we have to take responsibility for that. It's like...I guess it's like Smithing…" Alyce stared at her muddy boot caps. "What if you knew you could build a weapon that could destroy more efficiently than anything ever made before? What if you knew that weapon could turn the tide of battle, but at great cost to life?"

"I…don't know…" Dagna sighed, looking upwards into the sky and then just as quickly looking away. "There isn't a rule that everyone can follow."

"For Mages, there _are,_" Alyce told her grimly. "Rule number one: No. Rule number two: _No_ and Rule number three…"

"Okay, I get it, I get it!" Dagna chuckled, more like her old self. She paused, sliding a look towards her mentor. "Oh go on," she said in a resigned voice. "Noogie the top of my head and be done with it. You know you want to…"

Squealing Alyce took up the suggestion, flicking Dagna's pigtails with contented glee. "Oosacuteliddleoogiewoogie den…!"

"Yeah…You know," Dagna sighed, casually slipping her hand axe from her side and flipping it from hand to hand. "I'm really not surprised _Divine Ryan_ fled the Tower…"

"He's not as cute as you are," Alyce had told her, receiving the most exaggerated eye-roll from her Apprentice yet. "And he never wore his hair like _this..._!"

-oo-

A sharp poke in her side and Alyce returned to the present, turning away from Senior Torrin's magnificent landscape artistry. She followed Dagna's jerking thumb, indicating a nervous Ser Hanleigh practically hopping from foot to foot nearby as Senior Enchanter Torrin and Ser Anwyn had by now passed out of sight across the forested hill. The three of them scurried onwards, following the easy trail a heavily armoured Templar and his more soft-footed companion had left behind.

They caught sight of the two men waiting on the crest of the hill ten minutes later. Sprinting beside Alyce, Dagna tugged on the Mage's sleeve. "You know, I've been thinking," she said breathlessly. "About what you said last night and I've been wondering…"

"About what Rule number three really is?" Alyce stared sardonically down at her.

"No," Dagna simply wrapped her arms tightly around one of Alyce's own and allowed herself to be dragged along. It was less effort than trying to keep up. "About why you just don't go and see this Ryan person and just get him to like you the way non-Mages normally get other people to like them."

Alyce scowled. "Remind me again. I must have fallen asleep during that part of the conversation because I certainly don't remember that _particular_ topic being discussed."

"It was along the lines of happiness…contentment…" Dagna persisted. Alyce sighed and stopped, realising Dagna's trailing feet had left two messy, double tracks behind them. She hoped darkspawn didn't use it to track them down. On the other hand, the four of them weren't exactly making too much effort to conceal their passage to Amaranthine and darkspawn were pretty good at tracking down _anything _that moved. She crossed her arms and stared down at the dwarf, one eyebrow raised in a fairly decent imitation of Senior Torrin.

"Enlighten me," Alyce requested. "How?"

"They don't teach you this stuff at the Tower?" Dagna asked, just in case.

"Might have been an optional class," Alyce replied uncooperatively. "I think I might have been too busy learning, oh you know, _real_ magic and stuff to see the notice for enrolments…"

"Well…" Dagna's chin jutted stubbornly, "_flirting_…batting your eyelashes. Smiling…I've seen you smile Alyce, so I know it's not a foreign concept to you. Being nice…well, okay, so you're not so good at the being nice bit, except to me, but…_urgh._" Dagna kneaded the heel of her hand into her forehead. "Making conversation…finding common ground…getting him stonking drunk and jumping his bones…Not…that…I would ever _know_ about something like that, but you get my gist, surely."

"I might have had a shot for that. Is it contagious?"

"You're incredibly, stubbornly perverse do you know that?" Dagna glared at her.

"Yeah," Alyce told her, unmoved. "Brilliant, huh?"

"Well," Dagna planted her fists onto her hips aggressively. "I want to see little Alyces running around. You're probably frustrated as all hell and…"

Alyce patted the top of Dagna's head. "Good dwarf," she said as condescendingly as her self-preservation would allow, considering the flash of warning in the younger woman's eyes. Turning serious, she added. "That's not going to happen."

"It could, if you _wanted _it too, Alyce!"

Alyce shook her head, turning her attention back to their other travel companions. "Mages don't marry," she told Dagna matter-of-factly. "And if they did, all children of Mages belong to the Chantry." She frowned deeply. Senior Torrin was gesturing at the two of them to hurry. Focussed on the older Mage, Alyce did not see Dagna's surprised, but sceptical stare.

"I don't think that's…"

"I wonder what's going on?" Alyce cut her off. "They don't look happy. Come on." Without waiting for her Apprentice, Alyce hurried up the hill, halting with a gasp. "Bloody bells…!" she exclaimed.

The high vantage point gave a good view of the city of Amaranthine. They were closer than they thought…and further away than they would like to have been. Dual metallic scraping sounds indicated the Templars removing their broadswords from their scabbards. Senior Torrin already had his staff at the ready, braced across his chest. Alyce unhooked her own silverite staff from her back, the words of a Rock Armour spell issuing from her lips to enclose Dagna first and then herself. The city, they could clearly see, was burning. There was little doubt why or how. Great plumes of thick smoke blew inland from the port city and while no one could see any real detail of the city itself, the evidence of darkspawn in great numbers was quite evident. The sky above the high towers of Amaranthine had a bruised and bloody look to it and there was a cloying stillness in the air; an active decay that stretched out towards them, overwhelmingly oppressive…

"It's like Denerim during the Blight," Alyce said quietly.

Senior Torrin nodded. With barely a look over his shoulder, his hands tightened around the dragon-head staff. "Alyce, look after Dagna," he instructed grimly. "You are not to let her out of your sight."

"Yes, Senior Torrin."

He glanced once at the Templars flanking him. "There'll be Emissaries down there."

"Let us hope we are not too late," Ser Anwyn said.

Torrin nodded again and led the group down the hill.

-oo-

The voices woke him with a start. Aidan Cousland mashed his eyes with his knuckles, squinting into the smoky room. Amongst the moaning, prone bodies and the hacking coughs, he spied three women in the far corner arguing. He sprang to his feet and in quick strides, had come close enough to make out the words of their debate.

"…my daughter! And I will say who will treat her!"

"My good woman…"

Aidan saw the spark of anger in Morwenna's eyes as Sister Melody attempted to place a calming hand on her arm, before the dark-haired woman wrenched it violently from the Chantry Sister's grasp. "I am _not _your good woman," Morwenna seethed. "And you _will _allow this Mage to treat my baby."

The smile Sister Melody bestowed upon the little girl's mother was both soothing and condescending. A smile the fiery Morwenna took instant offence to. Much as he was enjoying watching the passionate exchange, Aidan also caught the expression on the young Mage's expression standing nearby. _Not the first incident, _it told him. He also remembered the Mage was one of Alyce's friends...Pasting a smile of his own on his tired face, Aidan stepped up, clapping his hands loudly together.

"Well now," he began, winking at Sister Melody. "Isn't it wonderful how people pull together during the toughest times…So nice to see everyone getting on so well!"

"Thank you," Sister Melody said, "This woman," she gestured at Morwenna, "is being unreasonable. I am merely…"

With a single wave of his hand, Aidan caused the Sister to cease speaking. He had not looked once at Ser Ryan's sister and he did not intend to. His ire was for the Chantry Sister alone.

"This is my castle," he told Sister Melody in a quiet voice. "And you are addressing a Cousland," his smile widened, "my _good_ woman…It is customary to address the son of a Teyrn as 'my lord' when speaking to him."

Sister Melody's lips thinned slightly, bristling at the young lord's pointed hauteur glittering coldly in his cobalt blue eyes. "You would hide behind your title…my lord, to interfere in Chantry business?" she asked.

_Chantry business…? _He hardly thought treating people stricken with Red Fever _Chantry business _alone. Especially when those sick people were being housed, fed and treated within the walls of the Teyrn's home. With that in mind, Aidan allowed himself the luxury of a satisfying glower. "And you would hide behind your _Chantry," _he told her smoothly, "to exercise your petty, unjustified prejudices?"

"Fine!" Sister Melody snapped, back stiffening; her reaction confirming Cousland's assessment of the Sister's character. "Allow this…_Mage _to corrupt this child! I will not be held responsible!" Turning on her heel, the Chantry Sister left not only their company, but the room altogether. Aidan watched the woman leave, wondering what Ser Ryan ever saw in the woman...besides a gorgeous face and an incredible body…_stupid question, really…_Interesting though, he noted, that she didn't continue ministering to any of the other sick occupants in the room. _What dedication!_ On the other hand, he did notice that the anxious, red-haired Mage closed in quickly with her healing spell and tonic...while the _other_ Mage in the room; a very large, angry looking bearded lad hastily doused the fire from his fingertips as Sister Melody quit the area. _Clever one, that man…_

Turning back to the scene before him, Aidan watched the two women; Mage and mother working together while he became understandably forgotten. As he stepped back, there was a brief commotion outside the door. Ser Ryan appeared. Pushing past someone hovering outside, he entered the room, making a beeline for his sister.

"I was on my way home and I'd just heard…" he hunkered down beside his sister. Looking at the flushed face of his youngest niece, his face crumpled, stricken, for the briefest instant before recovering quickly. Reaching out tentatively, he placed his hand on the child's hair, withdrawing it to rest on the edge of the too-large cot near Myfanwy's head. "What can I do to help?" he asked.

_Intriguing…_Aidan thought to himself, observing the trio with interest. _He asked the Mage, not his sister…_Habit, he wondered? Or simply checking in with the Healer?

"Bonnie…" Morwenna clutched at her brother's arm. "I left her…When I came home and saw Myf; I just grabbed her and ran. I asked Bonnie to stay, but you know how she is…"

Ser Ryan nodded, rising to his feet almost immediately. "She's a sensible girl, Wennie. She won't stray too far from home." He startled, realising his commanding officer was standing within arm's reach. "My lord, I apologise. I didn't…"

"Oh, don't mind me," Aidan waved a dismissive hand at his lieutenant. "I'm just…bringing up the rear…" As Ser Ryan frowned in confusion, Aidan sighed. "Oh, just _go _man." _Good grief…_

Ser Ryan saluted, backing a couple of respectful steps away towards the door. After he had gone, Aidan continued to hover by the group, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He kept one, cautious eye trained on the doorway, wondering whether Sister Piccolo would return to continue her assigned duties in the sick room. Oddly enough, she didn't and after a while, Aidan Cousland returned to his own guard post in the far corner…He'd promised his mother he would oversee the Tower Healers and ensure that they continued to have everything they needed. He wondered whether Sister Lyrical would complain to Mother Mallol about the incident. Not that he cared in particular. Mother Mallol thought the Holy Light of Andraste shone out of his butt cheeks and even if good old Mallol filed anything with the Chantry, he was sure that his Mother would have a few things to say herself the next time she had afternoon tea with the Grand Cleric.

_Oh well…Excitement's over…_

He settled back, propping his feet on the bench before him and sinking his chin into his chest, in continuation of his restful vigil. _And I thought life would be dull,_ he grimaced,_ now that the Blight is over…Silly me…_Things were actually starting to get _really _interesting now...

-oo-


	42. In the City of Fish

A/N: Ah, the magical number '42'. The answer to Life, the Universe…everything, according to the wise Ser Douglas...

Hrm…don't think you'll get any answers here though…_However, _I would like to say thank you very much to all of you still reading. I still find it pretty amazing and awesome that so many of you are sticking with Alyce and her stubborn weirdness. So thank you, thank you, thank you!

Okay, that's all…really…

Bioware owns everything…except Ser Ryan's sweat droplet.

-oo-

**Chapter 42 – In the City of Fish**

Ser Ryan replaced the cover on the water barrel, leaning down to collect the pail to return it to the hook of the rear wall. He would have liked to have been able to warm the water before washing, but it had been far too late in the day to re-stoke the kitchen fire. Water droplets forming icicles on his bare skin, he jogged inside, trying to make as little noise as possible. Pulling a clean woollen shirt over his head, he wrapped his arms about his body in an attempt to warm himself. The house was silent and dark; his passage to the stairs illuminated by the dying embers of the sitting room fire. His mother had already gone to her room after putting her elder granddaughter to bed. Bonnie had been – as he had hoped – safe and sound at home, having waited patiently on the landing for her mother and younger sister's return. She had eventually been whisked away to the dinner table for supper and Ryan had not had a chance to see how she was coping without her mother. His own mother had said little to him this evening, only casting him a more pensive look than usual. He wished he had been able to give her some kind of news, but there was little anyone could do until Morwenna returned herself. He did not expect his sister to return however, without her youngest child.

At the top of the stairs, Ser Ryan paused, listening intently for any signs of his father stirring. With the cold weather upon them, Ser Gavin appeared to reserve his scattier rantings for the slightly warmer, day time hours. While the chilly nights made Ryan wish he could lay down for months-long hibernation, it did feel a little like the Tower. He wondered how Sers Bran and Hanleigh fared, thinking about how the place must look as the Tower inmates began preparations for Satinalia Week; the normally austere Templar quarters beginning to sprout gaudy decorations and unseasonal greenery from the hot houses. It was the only time of the year when the Knight Commander allowed himself to show a more fatherly side; applying a slightly less busy schedule and a more relaxed attitude to the pranks that the younger Templars traditionally played on their seniors at this time of the year.

To say that Ser Ryan missed the atmosphere in the Tower was an understatement. Highever was supposed to be _home, _yet it still felt foreign; wrong. He missed the sound of constant footsteps echoing through the chilly stone corridors, the iron-sharp scent of magic in the air and the comfortable silence of the Tower's chapel. The increasingly wilder weather might be keeping none but the most desperate from Cousland castle – especially now it was known that a group of Healers were in the area – but the numbers of people still arriving every day kept the Highever Guardsmen busy. Rumours of a conspiracy to remove the Hero of Ferelden from the Arling of Amaranthine by rather ungentle means had spilled over to Highever. Sick or no, new arrivals; especially those from the 'trouble' Arlings and land holdings needed to be watched carefully…and in some cases, screened and isolated.

Busy as she was, the Teyrna still managed a few festive touches, though it felt forced and cheerless. The Couslands still mourned the loss of precious family members and the wall to wall misery of the sick was insistently pervasive, especially since the Red Fever had a preference for the very young and the elderly. Ser Ryan half-expected to see Amell's aunt appear, though he couldn't imagine anyone so curmudgeonly putting up with something as trite and inconvenient as the Fever…

Stepping inside his room, he debated whether he should visit the old woman, turning in the low-ceilinged room towards his bed…It was already _occupied_.

Folding his arms across his chest, he stared down at his niece, who was too busy tugging the blankets over her middle to notice her uncle's unimpressed expression. As she continued to tuck herself in, Ser Ryan thought he should make his presence known in a more vocal manner.

"Bonnie," he began sternly, "what are you…?"

"Your bed is broken." Bonnie informed him with a disapproving shake of her head.

"I know," Ryan acknowledged briefly. "Shouldn't you be in your room?"

"It's Mummy's room," Bonnie reminded him, as though this was all the argument she needed, giving careful scrutiny to the effect her wriggling toes made under his blankets.

Ryan unfolded his arms in resignation, leaning over to drag a spare blanket from the bed and balling up a pair of pants to use as a pillow. Throwing both onto the floor, he blew out the lamp and lay down, attempting to make himself as comfortable as the chilly, draughty floor allowed. The wind rattled the windows, whining unhappily through the gaps between the warped panes. It was incredibly cold on the floor; the uneven boards pressing painfully into his flesh, but he was tired; too tired to care too much for physical comfort. Clearing his mind, he employed a Templar relaxation technique; his brain turning pleasantly foggy when he felt the butterfly touch of tiny fingers on his forehead; a single finger poking sharply into his left eye.

"Are you there, Uncle Whine?" his niece whispered.

"That's 'Ryan'," he corrected her gently.

"That's what I said," she said defensively. Pause. A couple of heartbeats later, there was another finger poke. "Uncle Whine, are you awake?"

_I am now…_"Yes," he told her patiently. There was another, longer pause.

"Will Myf be okay and Mummy too?" Bonnie asked in a soft voice, too afraid to voice her fears too loudly, lest they become true.

Ryan shifted onto his side and captured the tiny hand in his, giving it a gentle, comforting squeeze. "I'm sure they will be," he told her, quietly confident. "Myfanwy's being looked after by a very capable Mage."

"Oh," Bonnie murmured, then; "Like Aunty Lice?"

_Lice…?_ It took several moments for Ser Ryan's sleep-deprived brain to realise what his niece meant and when he arrived at the correct conclusion, he felt rather stupid for taking so long to do so. "Enchanter Amell," he told her. She giggled at him.

"That's silly! Aunty Lice isn't a male!"

"Her name is Alyce Amell," Ser Ryan elaborated, pronouncing each syllable carefully, enjoying the warming effect speaking the name appeared to have on him.

"That's what I said," Bonnie informed him primly. "You weren't listening to me."

His expression thankfully hidden by the dark, Ser Ryan hastily compressed his lips, trying not to laugh. He did not remember the Apprentice children at the Tower being such emotional see-saws. Perhaps he hadn't been paying much attention, or else the youngsters brought to the Tower had been naturally cowed by the discovery of their magical ability. Or perhaps he had been in the Order for so long, he had forgotten the freedom of normal childhood. The kind of childhood he had enjoyed when he had been growing up.

"Mm, I like Aunty Lice," Bonnie said suddenly. "Do you like Aunty Lice too?"

Ser Ryan frowned, wondering where this conversation was leading. Then he reminded himself he was talking to a _five year old…_and it was unlikely to lead anywhere except someplace completely confused. He cleared his throat.

"She's a fff…Yes I do," he told her, eyes rolling in self-deprecation.

"I like her too," Bonnie repeated, comfortable in this announcement. "When I grow up, I want to be a Mage."

_Unlikely, _Ser Ryan scowled, adding a quiet prayer to the Maker that he would not be proven wrong. He hoped for both his nieces' sake that neither showed any signs of magical ability.

"Mages are taken away from their mothers," Ser Ryan told her as gently as he could, the words sounding harsh to his own ears, coloured as they were by his own ingrained fears. _Better to be a Mage hunter, than a Mage…_

"I don't want to be taken away from Mummy," Bonnie told him firmly. "Did Aunty Lice get taken from her Mummy?"

"Not quite," Ryan told her. "From her aunt."

"Oh," Bonnie rolled over and yawned, the remaining unbroken bed straps creaking ominously as she did so. "How sad."

"Yes," Ser Ryan agreed. "It is."

"Does she 'member her aunty?" Bonnie asked drowsily.

"She does," Ser Ryan said, thinking back to Amell's insistence on trying to find her aunt and the events that it had led them to. No, that wasn't true, he reminded himself. It had been _his _idea in the first place to take the detour to Highever to find his family. If he hadn't, the two of them would have returned to the Tower, they would not have met the Couslands, not been a part of recovering the Teyrnir and the two of them...would have continued on as they always had. Would his younger brother have snuck into Denerim anyway? If he had not come back to Greenfell; to Highever, would he have remained in the Order, despite Bryant and Geraint's deaths? Alyce would have been in time to go to Denerim with the Mages. She might have even perished with the thousands lost in the last battle with the Archdemon…The thought chilled him and he shivered, pushing the thought resolutely from his mind.

There was no point in thinking of _could have beens._

"All the time," Ser Ryan added, receiving no response except a soft sigh followed by a gurgling snore. He waited a few minutes more, reassuring himself that all was well and his young niece was truly and peacefully asleep. Smiling to himself, he tucked the thin blanket about his body more tightly and allowed sleep to finally claim him. It was only when he was on the edge between wakefulness and slumber that he realised – and only then – that Bonnie had, for the first time since he had arrived in Highever, addressed him as '_uncle'_.

It was a thought far more warming than a thick blanket or a hot brick at one's feet…

-oo-

She had unbuttoned her cloak; the better to manoeuvre herself through the corpse-littered streets of Amaranthine. Vaguely aware of Dagna's vice-like hold on her cloak tails, Alyce directed another ice storm across the square, spinning to replenish the repulsion shields around the dwarf. Dagna's natural resistance to magic was keeping her busy…She ducked to avoid a sweeping blow from an armoured Ogre; the sickeningly familiar sound of cleaving flesh, bone and metal following as Ser Anwyn's broadsword did its work.

Across from her, Senior Torrin thrust the dragon head of his staff into a Hurlock's chest; causing her to flinch involuntarily as the creature exploded from a concentrated burst of kinetic energy.

Alyce had never seen her mentor in an actual battle before. It was heart-racingly terrifying, feeling both proud and intimidated by how quickly and violently the older man despatched their foes. Senior Torrin switched between magic and physical fighting so effortlessly, she found herself frequently distracted, trying to keep track of him, taking quick mental notes for analysis later.

"Healer!"

Alyce swivelled at the voice, realising as she ran Senior Torrin's Hurlock had been the last of the darkspawn. Part of the way towards the injured soldier, she also realised someone else was running alongside her. Someone familiar and yet quite wholly unfamiliar…

She skidded to a halt; the individual in the feathered robes arriving at the group of injured soldiers first.

"Just lie there for a while, I'll go fetch some bandages…" he said. When he straightened, Alyce came face to face with a square-jawed, stubbled face. She squinted at him as he startled, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards.

"Oh, I know you from the Tower!" he exclaimed. "You're that Templar apologist, aren't you?"

"Octopus!" Alyce retorted. "You have girl hair!"

He folded his arms at her. "Is that the best you can do?" he asked.

"_No, _actually_…_" Alyce jabbed the end of her staff into his collarbone, the shielded crystal of lyrium crackling angrily. "I could turn you into a pillar of ice, if you prefer. Wait…" She curled her lip at him. "Andraste's spit roast!" she growled. "So _you're_ that bloody apostate we got sent hiking cross-country for! I knew it had to be someone like _you_! Ser Hanleigh!" She raised her voice, gesturing urgently at the nearest Templar.

"Ha!" The smile the other Mage gave was smug. "Can't arrest me, _Sympathiser_," he told her, laughing. "I'm a Grey Warden. Can't touch me…" _Ner, ner, ner-nee, ner, ner…_the unspoken taunt rumbled through Alyce's head.

A rattle of slightly soggy armour announced the obedient arrival of Ser Hanleigh.

"Yes, Enchanter Amell?"

"Holy Smite this man!" Alyce commanded imperiously.

"Uh…"

"No, on second thoughts, strike him down with your Holy Blade of Andraste!"

"I dunno…" Ser Hanleigh scratched the top of his helm reluctantly. "He did say he was a Warden…Don't know if we're supposed to Holy Blade of Andraste _Wardens_…"

"Well…" Alyce balled up her fists. "Kick him in the nuts or something!"

"Aw…Enchanter Amell_…must_ I…?"

There was a chortle behind Alyce. Dagna appeared, wiping darkspawn blood carefully from her sleeve with a rag. "You could do it yourself…" the dwarf suggested to Alyce. "I could even score you on it."

"I can't," Alyce objected with a sniff. "I'm a Mage. Templars have to do it. Makes it official. Besides," she turned to Dagna, flashing the tiny woman an eager grin. "I get to watch him cry." She turned back to the Warden Mage, the smile melting from her face. "I do so like to watch men with girl hair cry…"

"Oh I dunno…" Dagna said, in a considering tone. "I quite like the earring."

"Oh and _hullo _to you," the Mage Warden bowed gallantly to Dagna, taking a positive cue from the comment about the earring. "My name is Anders…and you are…?"

"On her side," Dagna told him, jerking her thumb towards Alyce. "I'm her Apprentice."

The sound Anders made was half snicker; half choke on disbelief, then simply gave in to a great, big belly laugh instead. "_You_?" he managed to squeak. "A _mentor? _And to a dwarf of all things? Wow, they must really _hate _you in the Tower…"

"Heyy!" Alyce and Dagna exclaimed at the same time. Anders suddenly went cross-eyed, doubling over with a grunt. There was a brief flash of movement and a satisfying _kertonk_! as the handle of Dagna's hand axe connected with the back of the Mage Warden's head. He went down completely, the noisy crumpling of Anders to the filthy ground followed by the sound of running footsteps.

"_Alyce…_" Senior Torrin began, dutifully horrified. "Did you just…" He frowned at the heap of ponytail and feathers. "Did you just assault this…individual?" Torrin's efficient memory quickly supplied a name to the man lying prone at their feet. "And is he who I think he is?"

"It was me…" Dagna confessed in a small voice, one bloody boot toe digging innocently into the soil between the cobbles. "The stone was a bit slippery with darkspawn blood, and my knee sort of…_slipped _and then my hand kind of, _donk…_the back of his head…"

Dagna's bottom lip quivered in a reasonably credible depiction of chagrined ignorance…which fooled Senior Torrin not the least. "I'm terribly, _terribly_ sorry, Senior Enchanter," she felt she should add.

"I see," Torrin murmured with a sharp look at the pouting dwarf. Between them, the heap gave a pained groan, "Seems plausible to me."

He turned to Alyce, the incident over with and forgotten. "Did I hear someone say bandages?" he asked. "The Chantry of Our Lady the Redeemer," (he raised his eyes briefly heavenward), "so I have been informed, has been secured by the City Guard. There is also…"

Stepping a little to the side, he revealed a soldier clad in armour of a familiar colour and style. Alyce stared at first, and then she smiled, genuinely happy to see the man. The soldier finished his conversation with a guardsman, starting his way towards the Mages. He returned Alyce's smile on his approach, removing a glove to shake Senior Torrin's hand and then hers.

"Maker's blood…" Fergus Cousland grinned from ear to gore-spattered ear. "My younger brother told me you always seem to arrive in the nick of time. I can certainly believe it now…"

"Bad habit of mine it seems…" Alyce ducked her head, causing her view to include the Warden Mage, slowly climbing to his feet. She grimaced in distaste. "Urgh…"

"Was that necessary?" Anders groaned.

Alyce ignored him. "Lord Cousland…if you're here, then where are the rest of the Wardens?" she asked. _Neria…She said she had recruited more…_There should be more Grey Wardens here, still fighting these darkspawn.

Surely.

"You've missed them, I'm afraid," Fergus Cousland told her. He looked about the square; at the piles of stinking, twisted flesh that used to be darkspawn and people once. "Believe it or not these…" he indicated the corpses scattered about, "were not the advance group. Luckily for this city, the Wardens were here when the main horde attacked, although…we had actually thought we had seen the last of them. These took us by surprise…"

"But where are they?" Alyce persisted. "The Grey Wardens?"

The answer came from _Anders. _"That's _Warden_ business," he told them, with another self-satisfied smirk, reserving his most derogatory sneer for the tall, pale-haired Mage and her unjustifiably violent dwarf pet. "I could tell you, but then I'd probably have to kill you."

"Now hang on, Warden!" Fergus stepped between the two Mages. "You are speaking to a _lady…_"

"'Lady'?" Anders scoffed. "This is no _lady;_ this is a pathetic excuse for a…_urkgrk…_" The Mage Warden doubled over for a second time, revealing, as he fell, a young copper-haired dwarf in adorable pigtails, studiously observing a most fascinating cloud formation overhead. Her hand axe appeared to be nowhere in sight, so those standing around the bubbling, moaning Mage could not quite figure out why he had chosen _now, _of all times to reacquaint himself with the cobblestones.

Senior Torrin sighed. "Alyce…Dagna…" he began.

"Yes, Senior Torrin!"

"Would you assist these gentlemen," he indicated the injured soldiers sitting around the central fountain. "To the Chantry, please? Render any assistance you can to the Revered Mother. I will join you shortly."

"Yes, Senior Torrin!"

Both Alyce and Dagna backed away, wordlessly followed by Ser Hanleigh, who managed to convey sheepish enthusiasm while being enclosed completely in metal, cloth and leather. Only after the young Mage and her Apprentice had left, did Anders attempt to straighten fully. He scowled at Senior Enchanter Torrin, deeply unhappy to be face to face with one of the Ferelden Circle of Magi's most senior staff members…

"There's no point attempting to arrest me, you know," Anders reiterated sulkily, darting a warning glare towards Ser Anwyn wiping his blade nearby.

Torrin merely raised a single, lazy eyebrow. "I can't imagine why I would try," he told Anders in a bored tone of voice. "Seems to me it would imply that I gave a damn…" He turned a dismissive shoulder on the younger Mage. "When I have far more pressing concerns than failed…_octopi…_"

-oo-

"Poultice…"

"Thanks…" Alyce gently nudged Dagna to the side as she applied the poultice, securing it expertly with bandage. The dwarf was making a concerted effort to overcome her squeamishness at the sight of so much blood, injury and dismemberment by trying to get as close as possible to the blood, injury and dismemberment. It had the same kind of effect on Dagna that being in a small boat in the middle of a deep lake had on Alyce.

Giving the bandage a firm twist, Alyce tested the knot, then handed the woman a flask. She touched the elderly woman's shoulder reassuringly before rising, Dagna following with a quick look backwards. That Mage Warden, the dwarf observed with a sour tilt of her mouth, had been watching the two of them the entire time.

"Alyce…" Dagna began, increasing her pace to keep up.

Her mentor continued towards the exit, pushing open the double doors to relatively fresher air outside. Dark spires of billowing, black smoke indicated Senior Torrin's handiwork about the city; lighting pyres to dispose of the tainted corpses. Alyce rested her hands on the stone balcony, looking out on the city below. The Chantry had been built on the highest part of this bit of coast for a reason. Nowhere was higher, except for the battlements of the city walls behind. It was symbolical; the House of the Maker rising above the devoted, the small, the weak and the sinful.

It also faced, Alyce noted with a sardonic eye, a rather disreputable-looking tavern…

The doors to the Chantry rattled behind her. The stench of magic – something she had never been able to bring herself to like in all her years at the Tower – intensified. Two more hands, battle-scarred and blood-smattered joined her on the balcony.

"The woman you were treating," Anders said quietly. "She was tainted, was she not?"

Alyce merely nodded. Anders sighed, running a hand through the shaggy tendrils of his hair. "That makes about fifty in total." He slid a look towards the tall Mage. "And the tonic…?" he asked.

"A sleeping potion," Alyce told him, hand gripping the balcony tightly. "Very strong…laced with concentrated deathroot," she added in a whispering, shaking voice.

Anders placed one hand over hers, giving it an awkward pat. "You…seem to know almost as much about darkspawn as the Warden Commander…" he half-joked.

"I was at Ostagar…" she told him in a hard voice. "_And _Denerim…! Strange things one learns fighting darkspawn out and about the country…"

"Amell…" he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Don't you 'Amell' me!" she hissed at him. "You're a talented Mage. You could have been of some use! Instead all you could think of was yourself and running away! All those stories about your intrepid _attempted _escapes…when you could have been using your magic for the better!"

"Yes, well, I'm not running away now," he pointed out. "The noble Mage…we're so _appreciated _wherever we go…Hardly ever get rotten fruit thrown at us, _oh no_…"

Alyce rested her back on the balcony, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"How were you recruited?" she asked him coldly.

"I really don't see how that is relevant to…"

"_How _were you recruited, _Enchanter _Anders?"

Anders made a face at her. "She…invoked the Right of Conscription," he admitted softly, sourly. "But I was _glad _that she did!"

"Dreamed of becoming a Grey Warden all your life, did you?" Alyce asked him sarcastically.

"_No_," he told her. He sighed. "You wouldn't understand. I don't expect someone like you to ever understand…"

"Oh, boo hoo," Alyce said unsympathetically. "Poor little overdressed Mage. Pity me, for I can hurl fireballs and call down the heavens with thunder and lightning shooting from my fingertips…"

"Typical…" Anders curled his lip at her. After a long stretch of tense silence Anders turned away from the sight of the burning city himself, directing his glare towards the Chantry doors. "She's gone to some…_place_ to confront the cause of all these unusual darkspawn attacks," he informed her with a resigned sigh. "Surana…That's all I can tell you."

"And Vigil's Keep?" Alyce asked, afraid of the answer.

"Gone," Anders told her.

"Gone, what do you mean, 'gone'?" she demanded.

Anders sighed again; a sound heavy with both regret and impatience. "We had to make a _decision_," he told them. "Save the Keep or save the City. We didn't have enough numbers to be in two places at the one time, even with that Cousland fellow arriving with his group of Highever soldiers. As far as we know, the Keep's been taken…"

_Maker's blood…_Alyce passed a hand over her eyes. _Neria…Have I failed you again?_

Alyce forced herself to look over the city, wondering where the Senior Enchanter might be exactly. She came to a decision.

"Then that's where I'll be heading next," she stated. "Vigils Keep…" Her eyes narrowed, travelling down the long flight of stone steps from the Chantry to the city below. "…as soon as I can remember where the city exit is…"

-oo-


	43. Vigils Keep

-oo-

**Chapter 43 – Vigil's Keep**

Alyce woke with a start and the stench of darkspawn churning her stomach. She lay on her side for a few moments, clutching at the musty hay, attempting to collect her thoughts. It had been several days since she had had any Flemeth dreams and this last one had been the weirdest so far. Flemeth…_dancing _with pink darkspawn. It would have been amusing except there had been children…and they hadn't been dancing.

They had been dinner.

Whatever mental mechanism she'd had to yank her subconscious from her dreaming state had finally taken pity on her, it seemed; the sound of an infant crying the last thing she remembered. As the dream itself dissolved slowly into vague feelings of horror and discomfort, Alyce propped herself onto her elbow, rubbing at her eyes in an attempt to speed that process on. She turned at the sound of soft scuffling to find two baleful, yellow eyes regarding her from the corner of the stall. Encasing her hand in blue-white flame, Alyce raised it high, illuminating a creature watching her with chilly resentment.

It was a cat; a grey tabby, very fluffy, one bloodied paw resting smugly upon a half-eaten rat. It mewled at her…a sound very much like the baby's cry in her dream…

Alyce rose, throwing her blanket over Dagna's still-sleeping huddle. The cat remained unmoving until she opened the stall door and only then did it shoot between her legs; Alyce having to clutch hastily at the door or lose her balance completely. Thankfully, it had taken the rodent corpse with it…She'd been just about to warn it not to leave it anywhere near her Apprentice.

Picking her way carefully in the dark, Alyce headed for the barn's main doors. It was likely the building would be demolished and burned. No sane animal would stay in a barn that reeked of darkspawn. It was therefore considered perfect for the Mages, seeing as there were few other (intact enough) areas to billet the Tower group.

She threw on her cloak on her way through, giving it a good shake before putting it on, just in case any more rodents had decided to seek refuge in there from the mouser. Wrapping it tightly about herself, she stepped out into the pre-dawn air, shivering from more than cold.

Vigil's Keep was a mess…pretty much as Neria had described it, except Alyce didn't think that Neria would have left it a mess for long when she had first arrived. An attempt had been made to reinforce the outer walls; the old inner walls suffering the most damage. Alyce chose her steps carefully, walking through the remains of the inner courtyard, stumbling over scorched rubble and charred beams. The long process of removing all of this - and whatever lay beneath - had already begun, but it would take weeks, if not, months to clear. She wasn't even sure whether it was worth rebuilding the place, unless there were enough Grey Wardens left to house…

Alyce made her way through the remains of the Keep's courtyard as the first, reluctant fingers of the sun crept their way through the gaps and broken spaces in the walls. She wondered where Neria had gone to…looking for other traces of her friend…And that dream about Flemeth kept invading her thoughts…

"Well, you're the last person I expected to see at this time of the morning!" a cheerful voice greeted her. Alyce grimaced, turning around slowly, resenting the relative peacefulness of the morning being rudely shattered by _that _voice.

"Guk," she said.

"You know," Anders began, running a hand through his ponytail. "I realised we kind of started off on the wrong foot yesterday, and I…"

"Why are you bothering me?" Alyce asked him, frowning in irritation.

"Bothering you?" he asked, looking hurt by her question, though she doubted his pain would last for long, if it ever had existed in the first place. "Bothering was not my intent; oh no. No bothering bother am I."

Alyce folded her arms at him; as much a guard against the chilliness of the morning as well as an indication of how unimpressed she was at his attempts to 'make friends'. Neria might have admired him while they were in the Tower, but Anders had never shown any acknowledgement she had ever existed. On the other hand, Alyce had never shown any interest in _his_ existence either; or any other Mage in the Tower really. It didn't matter. She was still annoyed at the 'apologist' and 'sympathiser' tags he'd hurled at her before.

"I'm surprised to find you out of bed before mid-morning," she said bluntly.

"Well, not that I have to _try,_" he told her modestly, "but looking this good does require a little bit of effort."

Alyce eyed his shoulder feathers with distaste. "I doubt the ducks you raped and pillaged to decorate yourself would think so."

"Now there's a _non sequitur _if I've ever heard one. Neria always did say you were a bit…_odd._"

"Really?" Alyce's eyebrow rose. "I always heard you were a bit of a selfish arse, myself."

"You know, you're just not a very nice person, are you?" he stated, eyebrows drawing downwards crossly.

"I can be nice if I want to," she told him with an answering glare. "To people I actually like."

"Ohh…I _see…_Bit of a special club that. What are the joining requirements?" he demanded. "A purple skirt? A couple of Hedge Mages impaled on a pitchfork? A big sword perhaps…?"

"Shut up, Girl Hair," Alyce countered, "I don't…"

"Oh, it's so nice to see the two of you up and about in this bracing air!"

The arguing Mages turned. Alyce blinked at Senior Enchanter Torrin in stunned surprise. He appeared to have…_legs._ Jogging legs. She'd never seen legs on a Senior Enchanter before and wasn't quite sure what to think about that. He also appeared to be wearing some kind of long-sleeved, knitted tunic with a hood…and trousers with the bottoms cut off just above his…She could see his _knees. _They were rather nice knees quite frankly; not knobbly at all and those odd bulges on his calves…_Good gads…!_ The man had muscles…and she thought people of a certain age tended to forget they even _had _those and stopped using them, so they went all mushy like old bananas…

Noting the direction of Alyce's stare, Senior Torrin plucked proudly at the pockets on his chest, drawing her attention upwards. One of them had been embroidered with the Circle of Magi's coat of arms. He had not stopped jogging on the spot.

"Do you like it?" he asked them both. "Owain made it specially. Quite a dab hand with the knitting needles, that lad."

"Owain…" Alyce murmured, still dazed.

"Yes…" He'd stopped jogging and began to do stretches, resting his hands on his hips and swivelling from side to side. "The morning's fresh and new, Amell. Best rouse your Apprentice. The kitchen I'm told, is still in operation and will be serving an early breakfast. Good, stodgy Ferelden fare; quite _exciting_. Nothing at all like the horribly healthy meals provided to the Tower residents. The cook here triple-boils her sprouts, so I've heard. Turns them completely yellow and lifeless. Young Dagna might be fascinated by the chemical processes involved in rendering edible vegetables completely unidentifiable."

"Vegetables," Alyce repeated.

"Quite so," Senior Torrin informed her. "Do get a move on, my dear," he urged her. "The barn is also due to be burned today and I'd prefer it if your Apprentice _wasn't _in it at the time."

"Burn…? Oh. Oh, yes of course. I'll um…I'll go get her now. She'll, um, knees…I mean _need_ a good breakfast today…" _Does he do this every morning_, she wondered, her memory failing her. She had certainly never noticed before.

"Excellent!" Torrin nodded approvingly. "I'm just going to have a bit of a swim and I'll meet you in the mess hall…or whatever it is the Grey Wardens call it." With that, the Senior Enchanter jogged out of the courtyard. Leaping nimbly over piles of broken masonry, he headed towards the narrow river that ran from the Amaranthine Ocean on the other side of the Keep. It would be frozen at this time of the year, surely?

"Well, that was…" Anders cleared his throat, unable to continue.

"Yeah," Alyce completed his sentence for him. Then, without giving him a chance to continue, she turned and fled to the barn, dreams of Flemeth and crying babies long gone from her head to be replaced by an image of Senior Enchanter Torrin jogging over rubble, murmuring '_hut, hut, hut…' _to himself.

-oo-

Three days. Neria had still not returned. Of the Keep's own guard, barely a handful had survived. One Grey Warden had been located, badly injured and partially buried under a collapsed wall…a dwarf; and healing him was a messy business that required a great deal more effort. Alyce recognised him as being one of Neria's companions during the Blight, wondering whether any of the other Blight companions had left with her, or gone their separate ways. In order to find that out though, she would have to speak to Anders and she preferred _not_ to do that.

The former Tower maybe-escapee's attempts at humour irritated her; his drawling voice grated on her nerves and his overly condescending and quite frequently insulting attitude to Sers Anwyn and Hanleigh gave her an overwhelming urge to plant her fist into his nose. Ser Anwyn ignored the jibes with well-practiced silences and cold stares, but Ser Hanleigh was different. The poor man was no match for Anders' verbal sparring and Anders knew it; taking far too much pleasure in using the good-hearted Templar as a whetstone to sharpen his wit. Alyce tried to keep Ser Hanleigh with her as much as possible, but with so much work to do around the Keep and in Amaranthine and so few hands to do it, the Templars went where they were needed.

They were _helping people_, not hunting Mages and certainly not hunting _him_…"As if he were important enough…" Alyce muttered under her breath as she gripped her measuring scoop with more force than necessary. _Honestly, _what did Neria ever see in the man? He was unkempt, like a tattered old sofa left out in the rain and those _feathers_…"_Try-hard…_" she muttered even more darkly.

"You know Alyce," Dagna's voice entered her murderous thoughts, "the more you protest, the more people are going to think you fancy him."

"What!"

Alyce's hand shook as she glared at Dagna. Her Apprentice was unperturbed, placing the basket of carefully tied herbs onto the table with a grin. She knelt on the bench, resting her chin on the backs of her hands, the better to observe her mentor.

"For someone who doesn't like Warden Anders," she told Alyce, "you do seem to spend an _awful_ lot of time talking about him." Tapping her fingers on the table top, she continued to watch Alyce; who'd halted measuring out doses of lyrium into a wet jar to gape at her. "How's the Grey Warden?" Dagna added, turning her attention next to Alyce's mixture. She frowned slightly.

"Don't change the subject!" Alyce admonished her, wide-eyed in horror. _How could she even…! _It was a terrible accusation…and completely untrue. "He's been…and with…" she tried explaining. "You just don't know how much he and…urrhh!" She waved a free fist in the air, her anger making her unable to string enough words together to make a coherent sentence. "He's been _at it _again," She tried to say in _short _sentences. "_Anders…" _she spat, as though his name was poison in her mouth. "At poor Ser Hanleigh!" She waved her fist again. Dagna sighed.

"Ser Hanleigh's a lot more capable of looking after himself than you think, Alyce," Dagna told her simply. When the dwarf smiled, she had that particular _Dagna_-look. The one that said she knew something Alyce didn't…but, considering how much of _anything_ Dagna knew that Alyce didn't, this probably wasn't saying much…or was it saying a lot? Either way, the girl looked far too sneaky for Alyce's comfort. She had just been about to say something along these lines when Senior Torrin entered the kitchen accompanied by Fergus Cousland.

"…how long have they been looking?" Cousland was saying, deep concern etched across his snow-tanned face.

"As I understand it, quite some time," Torrin sighed.

"And the likelihood of finding him alive grows dimmer by the day," Cousland added with a shake of his head.

Alyce released her breath at the mention of 'him'. For a while, she had thought the two men had been discussing Neria...She felt a light touch on her hand. Alyce looked down. In her preoccupation with everything but compounding mixtures correctly, she had messed up the potion. It was starting to bubble…and bubbling potions were never a good thing. Especially when they turned this particular hue of orange.

"Damn," she muttered, abandoning the potion-making for now. She turned to greet the two men as they approached. "Who's missing?" she asked.

Senior Torrin halted by the table, casting an eye – out of habit – at the ordered piles of herbs, bottles of sterilising potions, tonics and poultices laid out between Dagna and Alyce and in the crates surrounding them. His eye fell lastly onto the flask of potion and he grimaced.

"The Seneschal," Senior Torrin told her, reaching out for the flask. He handed it silently to Dagna, who grinned and immediately began adding more reagents to it.

"Oh," Alyce replied, completely oblivious to the alchemical sneakiness happening in front of her. She had heard about the Keep's missing Seneschal. A couple of the surviving soldiers had been discussing the elderly administrator and one of them had asked her whether he had turned up on her injured list. From the way they spoke, it was easy to guess how well-regarded and liked the man had been. The search for him would not be given up easily.

"His family are quite concerned, as you can imagine," Fergus Cousland added.

"Might he have gone somewhere?" Alyce asked, already knowing the answer to that.

Fergus Cousland shook his head. "Robert Varel was Seneschal to the previous Arl," he told her. "He was stripped of his position and imprisoned when he spoke out against Howe and some of his…less than _moral _actions. Seneschal Varel's dedication and loyalty to this Arling was well-known. He would not have deserted this Keep, or its people under any circumstances."

"I didn't mean to imply that, my lord," Alyce bit her lip nervously, "I only meant…"

"It's alright, I know what you mean," he said with another sigh. "It would be wishful thinking on our part to hope that he did survive the siege of Vigils Keep and…somehow tried to return home to reassure his family he was well, but they would not be asking about him if he managed to do so."

"Of course." Alyce looked towards the Senior Enchanter for approval, but her mentor appeared to be busy, taking an inventory of their collection of herbal supplies. Shrugging, she continued. "Is there anything that we can do?" she asked.

Fergus smiled. "Is there anything you Mages haven't already done?" he said with a grateful shrug. "Healing the sick and injured, disposing of the deceased, comforting the survivors…not to mention helping to clean up the mess the darkspawn left behind…I'd hate to run you all ragged. It's bad enough we've been working the Mages sent to Highever pretty hard." His face lost a little of its innate sunniness when he added, "I wonder whether we'll ever see an end to all this…tragedy and suffering."

Impulsively, Alyce laid a hand on his arm, realising belatedly it was probably not only incredibly forward of her, but presumptive…he was after all, a Teyrn's son and she just a Mage…She'd tried to snatch her offending hand away, but Fergus laid his over hers, giving it an understanding pat.

"We Couslands are made of stern stuff," he assured her. "Steel in our veins. We have survived worse and no doubt will continue to do so for many generations to come."

"Well, if your brother is any example," Alyce told him, "of that…_steel…_"

Fergus rolled his eyes. "Ah…my _brother…_He definitely…" Looking suddenly uncomfortable for some reason, Cousland cleared his throat awkwardly; his expression much like someone trying desperately not to pass wind in the presence of polite company. His rescue came in the form of an exultant, red-haired dwarf.

"All fixed!" Dagna held up the gluggy contents of the wet jar for all to see. The hideous orange colour had disappeared and the potion was now a dull, bluish white with not a single bubble in it…as it should be. Alyce took the jar, staring, impressed at its contents.

"And how is the situation in Highever, my lord?" Senior Torrin asked, glad not to have wasted good potion ingredients.

"We're a tad inundated, I'm afraid…" Fergus sighed.

"Should I request more assistance from the First Enchanter?" Torrin frowned as Alyce and Dagna shared a concerned look.

"I'm not too sure, to be quite honest," Fergus said thoughtfully. "For a while, we thought all of Ferelden had been stricken with the Fever and had come to Highever for treatment. Unfortunately, I'm not completely up to date on events at home to give an accurate picture," he told them all with a self-deprecating grimace. "The darkspawn has made communications difficult. I certainly had not anticipated being here quite _this _long." He shot Alyce a nervous glance. "I am rather anxious to return home as soon as possible."

"Understandable," Torrin murmured politely.

"Actually…" Fergus said, shooting another odd look at Alyce, "I am glad to have met you…all…for a number of reasons."

"Oh?" Torrin glanced at Alyce, who predictably, was too wrapped up in Dagna's potion to notice anything strange from Fergus Cousland.

"I'd like to extend an invitation to you to spend Satinalia with us. My mother mentioned before I left that a formal invitation had been sent to the Circle…"

Alyce suddenly looked up, startled to find both men looking at _her. _"Eh? Do I have something on my face?" she asked.

"I would be honoured if you and your colleagues would allow us to accompany you to Cousland Castle for the occasion," Fergus continued. "Nothing formal…Satinalia has traditionally been a fairly casual affair for us…"

"Ooh, party!" Dagna exclaimed, bright-eyed. Senior Torrin did not look as enthusiastic, only thoughtful, but there were few people in Thedas that could look as enthusiastic as Dagna, so there was no point in trying, really.

"I'm sorry," Alyce began, "but we couldn't possibly…"

"Love to!" Torrin interrupted, thumping Alyce so heartily on the back that she lost her balance, pitching forward into the table. "I could not think of a better place to celebrate winters-end than in lovely north Ferelden. I thank you, Lord Cousland."

"Eh?" Alyce said again, looking from the Senior Enchanter to Fergus Cousland. "But…that would mean going to Highever…"

"Well, yes," Fergus Cousland said. "Cousland Castle _is_ in Highever. Well, it was the last time I looked."

_What about Neria?_ "After the Grey Wardens come back?" she asked, tossing a pleading look at Torrin. "There's so much work to be done here…and in Amaranthine…" she argued. _Should we even be celebrating…?_ _While so many people are missing, or injured or ill?_

"I'm afraid we may have to abandon Vigil's Keep," Fergus said regretfully. "Considering the extent of damage the Keep has sustained…And with the Landsmeet up in arms about the Arling…"

_Oh yes…_that. Alyce had forgotten that Neria was on the verge of having the Arling taken away, despite being granted the land and title by the _King_, no less. Now that the country was no longer threatened with wholesale destruction by marauding monsters, the Bannorn were less tolerant of an elf holding a title…and a _Mage _at that…She wondered whether the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt were of a similar mind.

"What about Neria?" Alyce persisted. "This trip was to meet her after all..."

"Nothing has been heard from the Grey Wardens since they left for the Feravel Plains nearly two weeks ago," Torrin reminded her gently.

Alyce stared at the Senior Enchanter. "We're going to give up?" she asked. "Just like that? What about the injured Grey Warden?" she added. "Oghren? We can't leave him to that…that…"

"I've arranged for him to be transferred to Amaranthine," Senior Torrin informed her matter-of-factly. "His recovery might be speedier were he in more comfortable surroundings than these. Warden Anders is – despite your own opinion – a competent Healer." He gestured at the piles of supplies, "This impressive store of potions, tinctures and poultices will be more than adequate…and the sooner we deliver them to the Revered Mother, the better."

"Oh, well I'll have my men help," Fergus Cousland chimed in, eager to be of assistance…and just like that, Alyce found herself manoeuvred out of staying at the Keep. _Why though? _Why did Torrin not want to stay? Well, quite apart from the fact that they had to sleep in a rat-infested, darkspawn-reeking barn with no heating, surrounded by death and ruins…

Alyce sighed inwardly. Continuing to argue with Senior Torrin in front of Fergus Cousland would have been graceless. Torrin didn't deserve that, especially since he had made the effort and left the comfort of the Tower to travel in the middle of winter to the other side of the country with her, but…She _needed _to speak to Neria. She needed to find out what Neria and her companions knew about Flemeth's 'replacement'. She wanted to find out what it was that Neria had kept getting upset about. Whatever it was that had made _Wynne _angry at Neria…and that not enough to drive Wynne away…Because Wynne was keeping Neria under observation? Neria certainly kept referring to that 'whatever' as though she had committed some kind of heinous crime.

The battle was lost…for the moment…Alyce had to give up the fight for another day. She refused to abandon Neria completely…who would come back. She had _better _come back…

Right?

"Kitchen too hot for you?" A sarcastic voice said when Alyce passed by with a crate. She realised Anders had been lounging at the doorway; how long, she didn't know, but judging from his tone of voice, he'd been there long enough to have heard enough conversation to deliver his own verdict…

"And why am I not surprised?" he sang caustically. "It's typical really, when you think about it. _Abandon _another Mage at the first sign of trouble...we're all as expendable as each other really…"

Alyce would wonder later whether she had been possessed for the shortest time in Mage history ever, because all she remembered was seeing a wall of crimson and the crate crashing to the floor; some unknown, compelling force drawing her hand back, bending her fingers into a fist and then propelling it into the centre of Anders' face at speed. She didn't even remember casting the Rockfist around her knuckles, only the satisfying crunch it made at it connected with his nose and the bony thud his head made as it was forced backwards into the doorframe. There was a lot of blood…and gasping…and shouting. She also remembered Anders looking surprised…for _whatever _reason.

Nor did she remember _stepping _on him after he went down, leaving a bloody boot print in the centre of his robes…but she did remember feeling rather smug about her handiwork…Even if the bastard had been right…

She _hated_ the thought of abandoning Neria. Again. And Anders had been as good a target as any to vent her creative impulses for facial reconstruction…

-oo-


	44. Amidst the Rubble

A/N: Sorry, this chapter jumps around so much. There's a bit of ground to cover and some catching up to do. Slight warning for some of you sensitive souls…contains implied romance with a _Templar…_(_shudder_).

Thanks to all you wonderful people who have read thus far and taken the time to send through a review. You're awesome! Thank you!

-oo-

**Chapter 44 – Amidst the Rubble**

_It was an act of defiance…_Well no, not exactly. Not defiance…_Oh yes it is…_the voice in her head argued vehemently. _I'm just putting things off for a…few minutes…_

_Just a 'few' minutes? _The voice in her head mocked. _You were supposed to have left half an hour ago. That's hardly a _few…

"Shut up. No one asked your opinion," she said out loud. Her foot slipped, her ankle turned, driving her boot deep in between the loose rubble. If the leather had not been reinforced with silverite, it would have torn; the stones here had edges that could slice an evening roast.

_You're making the others wait for you…_the voice in her head chided her, causing a brief, guilt-induced image of Fergus Cousland, Senior Torrin and the others to flash in her mind; all of them waiting patiently for her on the other side of the Keep. Cousland would no doubt be keeping an anxious eye on the horizon and the level of the sun…Any minute now a Templar would appear…

"I'm just…I. Need. To…_reach…_" Grasping a vertical beam she gave her foot a solid yank. It came free; sending shattered rock and slate cascading down the slope. A second misplaced foot sent her sliding downwards; cloth tore, her woollen stockings shredded, along with skin this time. Coming to a slow, spinning stop in the dip between the piles of rubble, Alyce needed to catch her breath first then figure out which way was up before she could attend to the long gash on her thigh. She sighed, the wound closing to a single pink line then gritting her teeth, she rose gingerly to her feet. _Damn, that hurt._

There had been something about this part of the Keep's grounds that had bothered her. How many times had she gone past, loading up supplies onto the open wagon? Each pass, something new had struck her; there was a door…why was there a door standing on its own? Why did the ground slope down only _here_? Alright, so most of the building around the door had burned to the ground, only the door itself was still standing…but it had been a tiny place; too tiny to be a barn and too big for a storage shed. It was too far from the main entrance to be a guard house. So what had it been used for? Her brain refused to let it go.

"Alyce!" Dagna's voice, surprisingly loud and insistent, carried over the rubble pile. "You have to come up here!"

"In a minute!" Alyce called back, squeezing herself around the door frame and kicking up ash and loose stone with her boot. There was more stone underneath; smooth and worn as though it had been laid down to be a level surface, now slightly pitted from the intense fire that had claimed the rest of the building.

Grasping her staff in her hand, she gave the cat's cradle of debris a calculating look before raising it high over her head. The wind stirred, swirling dust in a softly spinning loop, gathering momentum. She was vaguely aware of Dagna calling her name once more, but she pushed the sound to the back of her mind as the tiny hurricane grew in strength, fed by her magic in carefully apportioned stages. Wood creaked, beginning to rise. Already she was beginning to run out of magic, but she pushed onwards, feeling tiny pinpricks of awareness at the edge of her perception; a growing hunger moving closer from within the Fade.

She didn't have time to build a repulsion shield. Immersing herself further into the Fade, she seized a massive dose of magic, hurling it into the eye of the storm. As a sizeable chunk of debris exploded upwards, the Hunger Demon struck; grasping, leeching claws wrapping around her Fade-self. She felt the burst of negative energy…the Hunger Demon screeched in her head, her spell faltering…_I'll show you hunger, bastard…!_

Reaching into the core of the demon, Alyce tore out its life energy, siphoning it into her spell. The hurricane speared upwards, twisting up into the sky, sucking wood, stone and twisted metal with it. She released the hold on the spell, stumbling backwards as the remains of the building caught up in her storm came crashing to the ground several metres away. Small hands grasped her arms, guiding her gently to the ground. _Dagna? _She turned gratefully to gaze into a pair of – not blue as she expected, but – amethyst eyes, her mouth dropping open in shock as realisation hit.

"N-ner-ner-Neria?"

The elf mage grinned. Jerking her chin at Alyce's handiwork, she said appreciatively, "Damn fine work, Amell…Interesting use of a demon. I would never have thought of using _demon power…_Risky, but I'm going to have to remember that for the future."

"_Neria!_" Alyce screamed, throwing her arms around her friend. "You friggin' bloody idiot!" she added. "I was so worried!"

"Ow…ow…ow…" Neria responded, trying to disentangle herself. "Half-healed ribs," she explained. Alyce obliged by releasing the smaller woman. "Being tossed around by a brood mother hurts like bloody buggery…" Neria grimaced, adding weight to her complaint.

Alyce pinched her friend's bruised cheeks instead. "I'm not going to ask you to explain that one…not without a few pints between us, anyway!"

"And we're not finished here," Neria told her, wincing as she rose. She gestured towards the partially cleared area. There was still a solid layer of rubble to clear. "How did you know this is one of the entrances to the underground tunnels?"

"There are tunnels here?" Alyce's eyes widened. "Your Mage Warden never mentioned anything about _that…_"

Between the two of them, blasting rock from the ground with fire and ice, a small central area was opened up, revealing a metal trapdoor. More hands arrived; a couple of dwarves carrying a pickaxe each. With a nod from Neria, the two of them levered the trapdoor open carefully. Light filtered downwards. It took a bit, but slowly they could see deeper…and the shapes of _something _down there. Neria threw a soft ball of fire downwards, aiming it at a wall. An old, wall-mounted torch flickered to life, showing the shapes as _people, _huddled together. One of them; an elderly, blood-caked man in dented armour raised his hand, shielding his tired eyes against the light.

"Varel!" Neria exclaimed. She turned urgently to the dwarves. "Fetch Anders…" she commanded.

"And the Senior Enchanter!" Alyce added, moving aside to allow Neria to lower herself down. After the other Mage had descended, she jumped down too, landing painfully hard. As her own eyes became used to the dim, flickering light, she saw just how many were down here…about twenty or more; women, small children…There was no time to lose. Taking a deep breath, she and Neria wove in amongst the refugees from the siege, rejuvenation spells following rapidly after those of healing. Unlike her storm though, she didn't need to rip a demon apart to replenish her energy.

Her power came from pure happiness and relief.

-oo-

Fergus Cousland sat watching the activity nearby with a resigned, placid eye. They should be well on their way to Highever by now, but he could not in conscience simply leave; not after this morning's discovery. He was also much too afraid to move lest he wake the sleeping child in his arms; the muddled string of events that led to him playing temporary nursemaid confusing him even now. She was a tiny thing; dwarven, with a full head of carrot red hair and a generous sprinkling of freckles across her baby-snub nose. It had been years since he had held a child of this age…but he found it was coming back to him. The trick was to be very, very still…and not to make too much eye contact with the mother, just in case his scant experience showed and she attacked...

His stillness gave him a good opportunity to observe Aidan's Mage as she was the one treating the girl's mother. A broken arm and collarbone were being carefully and slowly healed to wholeness again. In all his years, seeing how a Mage worked their magic would always amaze him. Even the Chasind healers with their eerie, chanting rituals filled him with awe. Yet another postponement of their departure from the Arling was worth it, just for the spectacle of watching Mages at work, especially Alyce Amell…

The girl was…talented, but not beautiful, he conceded. She was far too tall and too broad-shouldered to fit the current, popular mode of beauty that Anora Mac Tir-Theirin represented so perfectly. Her face was too angular and she frowned far more than she smiled; even now, surrounded by her friends and respected colleagues; her dark eyebrows were drawn downwards in deep concentration, fingers crackling and glowing with magical energy. Though he could not call her _plain, _exactly, Fergus could still not divine what it was about the woman that attracted his younger brother. Considering the womanly tidbits Aidan had entertained on previous occasions, Fergus was completely bewildered.

If not beautiful, she was certainly…striking? He hesitated to use the word 'statuesque', needing to supply a bowl in her outstretched hands for that image to work in his head. It didn't, as she rarely stayed long enough in one place to hold bowls, torches or anything else that would spill, upend or cause injury to innocent bystanders. Neither were there any individual features that stood out in _particular_. If he looked away, he would be hard pressed to be able to describe her accurately besides being 'tall'. She did have lovely eyes, but he could not quite decide what colour they were. As for her hair…Ferelden women were known for their elaborate hair arrangements; a holdover from the Orlesian occupation, perhaps. He certainly remembered Oriana spending _hours _at her morning toilette, ensuring that every braid was evenly plaited or…whatever it was that she spent hours…doing.

Amell was…Well, at the moment, it was tied carelessly back into a messy pigtail at the nape of her neck, long, stubborn tendrils curling about her ears that for some reason made him think 'elf'. It was not so much a 'style' as a haphazard collection of hair and string, thrown together out of necessity rather than any aesthetic sense and yet on Amell, the carelessness seemed to suit her somewhat vague, messy personality.

Her Grey Warden colleague on the other hand was stunning. His attention kept being arrested by the elven beauty, even when she was doing something as uninteresting as blowing her nose. There could not be two more disparate women in the entire country than these two Mages and he sighed in defeat…reserving his opinion for yet another day.

Perhaps it was a measure of his younger brother's maturity…or his boredom, which was more likely, but Fergus had never known Aidan's attention to have lingered _this _long on a female before.

It was most…_baffling._

Amell had finished with the dwarf mother - the wife of one of the Wardens, as it happened – standing to her full height and stretching her arms in front of her. The child in Fergus' arms stirred, as though sensing the time to return to her parent. She whimpered as she awoke; the dwarf woman calling out softly, murmuring calm assurances as she was helped to her feet by the Warden Commander.

Fergus found Amell by his side, healer's fingers running through the mass of bright curls. "She's so adorable," she whispered, eyes softening as they gazed upon the child. "What's her name, Felsi?" she asked, turning back briefly.

"Neria," the woman half-grinned at the elf standing beside her.

Neria rolled her eyes. "It was almost 'Warden'..." she informed them with a shake of her head. "Dodged a flaming arrow with that one, that's for sure."

Alyce snickered quietly, amused. "Neria," she repeated. "With a name like that, she is sure to grow up to break a dozen or more hearts with her incomparable beauty, win arguments with her rapier wit and outshine everyone her age with her superior intellect."

"I think you left out courage to outlast the bravest of warriors," Fergus found himself adding in good humour, eyes straying yet again to the light armour-clad Grey Warden.

"Ah, but dwarves I've found," Alyce told him with an answering twinkle, "have an innate ability to weather the toughest of hardships, courage applied or not." Her grey eyes sparkled with more mischief when she added, "Much like a Cousland in that respect."

"Perhaps we have dwarven blood," Fergus mused, "somewhere in our deepest, darkest, oldest ancestry."

"I wouldn't be surprised…" Alyce said as the child turned, holding out her arms towards her mother. Alyce scooped her up. Folding the tiny thing in her own arms, she nuzzled the top of mini-Neria's head before delivering her to her mother, both Grey Warden and Tower Mage fussing over the child as Felsi took her in her good arm.

"You know Ner," Alyce sighed, "I think I'm really developing a weird fetish for dwarves…I want to give them all a great big hug."

"I'd like to see you try that with my nug-spit of a husband," Felsi chuckled, wincing slightly from pain. "No, on second thoughts, he might enjoy it too much. Forget I spoke."

"Hm…The last time I saw your husband Oghren conscious," Alyce tapped her chin thoughtfully, "he threatened to cut my legs off at the knees…" At Felsi's outraged expression, she added hastily. "I'm sure he meant it in a nice way!"

Felsi rolled her eyes. "Nothin' my steaming pile of bronto poo husband says is nice. I can guarantee _that._" Regarding Neria with an expression bordering on holy admiration, she added, "I can't tell you how stone-blessed I feel, to be here…and whole again. Orzammar may have turned its back on us Surfacers, but the Ancestors sure didn't by putting you in charge, Commander."

"Now all we have to do is piece this bloody jigsaw back together," Neria sighed, looking at the waste of Vigil's Keep. Alyce smiled. There was hope in that statement, along with steely determination. If Neria stated that Vigils Keep would be rebuilt, then she would find some way to do so, even if it meant carving stone blocks with her teeth and sawing wood with her hair…of course, Neria wouldn't have to do that. Word of the Grey Warden Commander's return had quickly spread and volunteers from Amaranthine had already started to arrive.

Neria was a hero again…At great personal sacrifice, she had saved a city and its people. She had vanquished the enemy and lived to tell the tale. It didn't matter right now whether she had rather longish ears or carried a big, metal stick that shot lightning out of one end. She was the Champion of Amaranthine and it made Alyce want to jump up and down and smack Anders over the head with her staff. Except that she'd gotten into trouble already for doing that and she promised not to give Anders any more concussion for the rest of the day.

"I suppose," Neria said with a grimace, "that the sooner I start, the sooner we'll get this thing done." Bowing to Fergus Cousland, Neria turned to go.

"Ah…!" Alyce's arm shot out, grasping her friend's shoulder. "I wanted to speak with you…"

Neria stared at Alyce a long while. Finally, she nodded. "And I need to speak to you," she told the taller girl. "It's just…" Her eyes fell on Cousland and she placed a hand over Alyce's. Nodding her head towards the other side of the compound, she indicated Alyce follow her to a quieter spot where there was less chance of being overheard. "I suppose the sooner we get that over and done with too, the better, huh?"

-oo-

_Maker…I'm so exhausted…_Magic drained, bone-weary, muscle-strained, brain-fuzzed-out _tired._ She could barely manage one foot ahead of the other, but sheer force of will had managed to propel her this far and she was determined not to be left behind simply because she had run out of energy; magical or otherwise. She knew not how the Senior Enchanter could keep going and going and going…_endlessly, _it seemed. The man was pure energy. As for Dagna…just watching the girl skip along the wooded paths and over sandy dunes made Alyce feel breathless.

"Psst."

Just up ahead, she could make out an outline of some kind of tall, spiked structure in hazy purple. Traffic had increased along the road. They were closer to civilisation. _A bed…a hot brick…a bath…Maker, I'm dying, desperately stinking, gagging for a bath…_

"Psst…_Amell_…"

_And maybe a hot bowl of stew…_Wondering whether she could have both together to save time, Alyce trudged onwards leaning so heavily on her staff that she was leaving a permanent drool track along one side.

"_Psst_…"

Alyce groaned tiredly, the barest tilt of her head acknowledging the speaker. She unstuck her cheek from her mage staff to curl her lip at the Templar marching straight armed beside her.

"You appear to have developed a slow leak, Ser Hanleigh," she informed him. "Do you need a bit of cork? Some glue and wadding, perhaps?"

"Ah…" He looked nervously up ahead. Ser Anwyn, Senior Enchanter Torrin and Dagna were eating up the distances with their energetic pace, well out of earshot. Fergus Cousland and his remaining troops were mounted and were even further ahead than that, eager to reach Highever before evening set in.

"I'm just wondering…" Ser Hanleigh reached up to remove his helm, tucking it under his arm as he slowed his own pace to match hers. "Whether…um…I'd like to ask your advice, Enchanter Amell, if you don't mind, that is."

With his metal bucket off his head, the sinking sun turned the bare dome of his head even more pink than was natural. Alyce frowned.

"Are you…_blushing, _Ser Hanleigh?" she asked him.

"Eh…" His cheeks turned rosier and he chewed nervously on his lower lip. He glanced up ahead again and Alyce groaned yet again, having followed his line of sight to the small hopping figure with cheerfully bobbing pigtails.

"Maybe." This time his entire neck from the top of his armour upwards glowed sunset red.

"Hurry up, slow pokes!" Dagna called from up ahead. "We're at the town gates!"

Alyce gouged the dirt with her staff, growling deep in her throat. "Nothing dents her enthusiasm, does it?" she asked no one in particular, trying to stop her knees from buckling. Thoughts of that bath and something warm to fill her stomach did spur her onwards, but her flagging spirit had been further eroded by Dagna's bright burst of enthusiasm. It occurred to her if she fell here, someone might be moved to pick her up and carry her into Highever Village. Or, more likely kick her to the side…

"No, ma'am…urh hur, hur, hur…" Ser Hanleigh chuckled indulgently, even as he fiddled restlessly with his helm. "So this question…" he reminded her.

"Yeah…" Alyce murmured unenthusiastically. "What about it?"

"Can I ask it now?"

Alyce rolled her eyes; an exhausting exercise that made her head hurt. "Was that the question?" she asked.

"Eh? What question?" Ser Hanleigh frowned, playing with his helm again. _Fiddle, fiddle…rotate._

"The question you were going to ask me," Alyce reminded him.

"Oh. Yeah. That." He stuck his fingers through the eye slit of his helm and swung it from side to side. Then he tucked it under one arm, before removing it to shove it under the other one. "I was just wondering…"

"Oh my fnarking Andraste's butt-freeze!" Alyce exclaimed suddenly. She surged forwards, sluggishly at first but gaining speed. They had passed through the village gates and the first thing that Alyce spied was a low, wooden bench. She made a beeline for it, falling face first onto the bench when she was near enough. "Bwiff!" she exclaimed rapturously muffled. Her magic staff fell to the ground beside her as she hugged the bench. Ser Hanleigh came to a stop beside her, anxiously noting that the rest of the party had not waited for the two of them to catch up.

Clutching his helm tightly between his hands, like a monkey trying to figure out how best to crack his coconut, he eyed the prone Mage in concern.

After a short while, Alyce gave up trying to ignore Ser Hanleigh and pushed herself upright. She patted the other half of the bench in invitation.

"Come and tell Auntie Alyce all about it," she sighed again.

"Oh. Thank you." Ser Hanleigh lowered himself to the bench, causing it to tilt under the combined weight of his nerves and armour. "You see, the thing is…" he began. "I'm just wondering, seeing as you're her Mentor and all…"

"Yeeeess…" Alyce said slowly.

"Does she talk about me?" Ser Hanleigh asked. "You know, like a man?"

"Who does?" Alyce tried bouncing up and down in an attempt to rebalance the bench, to no avail.

"Apprentice Dagna," Ser Hanleigh whispered, casting a cautious look down the main street.

"Oh. _Dagna_," Alyce nodded. "No. She hardly ever talks like a man. It's mostly girly stuff."

"Oh. That's not what I mean though," Ser Hanleigh clarified. "I meant does she talk about me like I'm not a Templar and stuff? Like a regular guy."

Alyce wanted to bury her head in her hands. If not, in a deep, dark hole somewhere. If she continued on in this way, the conversation could be dragged on into the early hours of the morning, she would never get her bath, stew or hot slippers and she would be no better than Neria's feathered Mage Warden…of course _thinking _of Neria or anything in relation to her Warden friend brought back thoughts that she thought had been pushed firmly out of her mind and she sagged, depressed by it all. That 'I need to talk to you' had been enlightening, but incredibly worrisome. How on Thedas was she supposed to sort all of _that _out in her head?

"…cute and stuff…" Ser Hanleigh's voice tugged at her attention.

"What?" Alyce blinked, staring unfocussed at the Templar.

"Do you think," Ser Hanleigh repeated patiently. "That Dagna and I…?"

"Ser Hanleigh," Alyce held up her hand for him to stop talking. "You're six foot six…" she pointed out. "Dagna is four foot, five inches!"

The Templar appeared to contemplate this very important piece of information, then…"You don't think she goes for older men?"

Alyce felt her eyes lose the ability to focus on _anything…_After everything that Neria had told her about the Archdemon…and the…the _ritual…_and the soul of the Old God and now…the thought of Ser Hanleigh romancing Dagna the _dwarf _was making every brain cell in her head self-implode. She sat perfectly still, unable to move, allowing delayed shock and surprise wash over her in chilling waves.

"What about the rule about chastity?" she asked hollowly.

"They're more…guidelines than actual rules," Ser Hanleigh told her. "Anyhow, if we're discreet…"

Alyce found herself being buffeted by another wave of astonishment. _He's been thinking about…No! Don't think of it! You'll lose your mind!_

_He knows the word 'discreet'?_

"I don't feel very well…"

"What?"

"Perfect," Alyce heard her voice say dully, completely disconnected from the rest of her. "You're perfect for each other. Go for it."

"Oh, I knew I was doing the right thing by asking you first," Ser Hanleigh said, glowing with relief. "That Dagna, she's pretty quick with that hand axe…Took Warden Anders down five times. I thought she might be interested in him at first, because, you know the ladies _always _hit the handsome, well-dressed ones."

_Handsome…? Well-dressed…? Have I missed something?_ Alyce stared, uncomprehending. _Wait...did he say 'hit'?_

"But as soon as she knocked him out that fourth time, I thought she might not be interested after all. It filled me with _hope._"

He said this with his gloved hand over his chest, staring off into the distance with deep cavern glow worms in his eyes. "Or do you reckon I should throw on a few feathers myself?"

"Yeah…do that…"

"Great!" Ser Hanleigh grinned happily. "We passed a chicken coop a while back. Think I might duck over later and pluck a few fowl. Do you want me to bring back some eggs while I'm at it?"

"Yeah…" Alyce said emotionlessly, feeling completely burned out. "Thanks…"

"Right then." He stood. "I'll see you up at the castle, Enchanter Amell."

Ser Hanleigh jingled happily away, leaving Alyce frozen to the bench, stunned, stupefied and rendered completely, wordlessly immobile. Every thought process had shut down in self-preservation except that required to keep her breathing. Was this what it could be like, being Tranquil? She felt nothing. Not the chilly evening air or the knot holes carving into her buttocks. If she sat here long enough, she might even dissolve into dust and be blown away by the air…

Yeah…that would be…nice…

And that's how Ser Ryan found her, barely five minutes later…Looking…_tranquil…_

-oo-


	45. Servant of the Maker

-oo-

**Chapter 45 – Servant of the Maker**

He'd had no idea that she'd come _here, _to Highever. He might not have even seen her today if he hadn't had to speak to Lynton, the new blacksmith about some armour repairs. After all that he'd heard, he certainly hadn't expected her to be allowed to leave the Tower again. Except, he supposed, if they'd _made_ her…that…thing…

Ser Ryan didn't know how long he stood under the awning of Lynton's workshop, watching her. _Amell_. She looked…she appeared weary and pale, half-lidded eyes unfocused and staring emotionless into space. He frowned. There was something not quite right. _Well of course there wouldn't be anything right if Amell was Tranquil, _he reminded himself, but…His frown deepened. He had witnessed enough Rites of Tranquility to know exactly how Mages were…_processed._

_Think, idiot! _What was wrong with what he was _seeing_?

A door slammed somewhere close by, jerking him out of his own immobile haze. He forced one foot to move forward, the other following with slightly less effort than the first. In moments he was close enough to touch her. She sighed heavily; a tiny wrinkle appearing between her eyes. Ser Ryan crouched beside her quietly. His foot nudged something metallic on the ground at her feet. Her Mage staff…His breath caught in his throat, refusing to leave.

"Amell…" his voice strained, barely above a whisper. Her head turned towards him, expression still empty and unresponsive. A chill wind whistled through the narrow alleys meandering from the main street, blowing a tiny leaf across her line of sight.

He knew the moment everything he'd hoped was absolutely not true when her shoulders made a tiny jump. It was like watching an elaborate structure being pulled upright; when the ropes tightened, suddenly there was _shape _and meaning from what was a moment ago a heap of tangled canvas and hemp.

Her mouth fell open slightly, her eyes widened and she turned first a greyish colour before crimson suffused every inch of bare skin.

"Rrrrr…" she began. He smiled at her. It was a mistake. "Ryan?" she asked then squeezed her eyes shut, opening them only to blink furiously at him, "Ser Ryan…No, hur…! Captain Ryan? Lieutenant General Major Sergeant Roo…Rer…_Maker's black pudding…!" _She stood up suddenly, teetering like a skittle. "I need to…can't be…bath stew…! Stew in a bath…no, I have to bite a bath…bath a boot…_crap…!_" she exclaimed, smacking her forehead with the heels of her palms. "No, I don't need to take a d…_Shiver me timbers_ …!"

Ser Ryan had gotten to his feet too. He extended a hand.

"Actually," he began, trying to break through her nonsense speech, "it's only Lieutenant…" She looked down at his offered hand. Her face twisted as though the proffered limb was a slimy, poisonous tentacle…Her eyes flew to his face then took flight elsewhere, the rest of her turning to flee…

She fell over.

Alarmed, Ser Ryan bent down and touched her shoulder. "Amell?" he asked tentatively. "Are you alright…?"

After a while, she uttered a soft, pathetic whimper. "…my legs don't appear to be working particularly well…" she cried into the icy ground.

Trying not to laugh and possibly failing, Ser Ryan lifted the Mage to her feet as though she was nothing more than…well, actually she _was _rather heavy; and being rather floppy-limbed she was something of a dead weight. Years of playing clothes dummy to full plate armour and heavy weapons however, did not go to waste. He simply picked her up, threw her over a shoulder, retrieved her staff from the ground and strode up the main street.

The sound of soft footsteps heralded the arrival of what he thought at first was a young child, but on closer inspection, turned out to be a very short young woman. She skidded to a halt, peering around Ser Ryan's leg with interest. Her smile was wide when she giggled.

"Alyce!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "Ancestors, you're so pathetic!"

The young woman then turned to Ser Ryan. "We've only walked from Vigil's Keep," she explained, rolling a pair of bright blue eyes. "You'd think someone with legs that long wouldn't get tired of walking _at all_." Still smiling, she nodded at him. "I'm Dagna by the way, of the Circle of Magi."

"Circle of Magi?" Ser Ryan repeated, wonder in his voice, sure that the young woman standing before him was a _dwarf_; one of the most _un_magical people in the history of magic. What would such a person be doing in the Circle?

"I'm her Apprentice," the dwarf supplied the answer, poking at Alyce's dangling calf. "This is Enchanter Alyce Amell and…" Dagna stretched around him again, her head cocking to the side like an inquisitive bird. "Why is your face so red, Alyce?"

"I happen to be _upside down_!" Alyce hissed in response.

Dagna laughed outright. "I'm glad Senior Torrin sent me to look for you," Dagna told them both. "Who knows where you might have ended up?"

"Senior Enchanter Torrin?" Ser Ryan murmured. "He's here too?"

The young woman blinked up at him in surprise. "You know the Senior Enchanter?" she asked. An odd expression crossed her face and her mouth turned into a tiny 'o'. "Ho!" she exclaimed suddenly. "_You're _that…!"

"…shutupshutupshutupshutup...!" Ser Ryan heard Alyce say behind him.

"…oh, ho, ho, ho!" Dagna merely chuckled. She danced a little jig. "_You _must be _Ser _Ryan," the girl said, oddly seriously. Ser Ryan nodded.

"Pfft!" Dagna doubled over this time, clutching at her sides, her wall of seriousness collapsing completely. She raised her eyes, crinkled in mirth. "Pfft!" she clapped both hands over her mouth. Waving one above her head, she said, "Sorry…sorry…_pffftt…no I'm not!_"

"Perhaps," Ser Ryan interrupted diplomatically, "we should continue. The temperature drops rather dramatically once the sun sets. It would not do to be found out of doors in the cold."

"By the stone, you're so proper!" Dagna told him, adding another, "Ff ff ff…" Her moment of mirth mostly over, she led the two of them through the town, occasionally breaking into fits of giggling, but they were short-lived, fading to the odd compression of her lips whenever she looked over her shoulder at them. She skipped through the castle gates, stopping in the wide forecourt uncertainly.

"Um…" she said, swiveling on the spot. "Now where…?"

"Shall we continue to the Guest Wing?" Ser Ryan suggested politely.

"Oh yes, _let's_!" Dagna called out cheerfully.

"I can walk from here!" Amell announced, trying to push herself free. Ser Ryan lowered her to the ground, her knees promptly giving way. He caught her easily, one arm curling firmly around her waist.

"I've got you," he told her good-naturedly and she promptly turned, arms flailing. One hand found a red pigtail and she collapsed forward onto the dwarf.

"Alyce!" Dagna protested. "Ouch. You're compressing my spine…!"

Alyce wrapped both arms firmly and determinedly around her Apprentice, while levering herself upwards. She brought her lips close to Dagna's ear. "When I have my staff in my possession once more, Dagna of the _Circle of Magi_…" she growled softly into the younger woman's ear so that only she could hear, "I am going to turn you into a _flower pot._" Alyce paused for dramatic effect. "And when you are a flower pot," she added, "I am going to grow _prickle weed _in you…" Upright and still clutching the dwarf's shoulders, Alyce added a glare to her verbal warning. "Clear?"

"As lyrium crystal…" Dagna pouted. 

-oo-

_Makers blood…why can't I do anything right for a change?_

Water sloshed against the side of the bath. All the guest rooms had these _wonderful _bathing facilities and by the time she had half-crawled to the room that had been allocated to the Tower visitors, hers had been filled with steaming, scented water. Despite her growling stomach, Alyce had pulled off her boots, thrown off her tattered cloak and slid, still clothed into the bath. She had eventually peeled off her wet robes. They were sitting now in a sodden heap at the base of the bath.

She hadn't expected to see Ser Ryan. Well, actually she was hoping she _wouldn't _see Ser Ryan….not when she was covered head to gritty foot in travel grime, sweat and blood, with her clothes torn and in disarray from her Amaranthine experience. After her last 'encounter' with him, did she really need to make a worse impression?

She'd forgotten how much like a walking sculpture he was…how much that single lock of silver-streaked hair that stubbornly fell across his forehead made her want to brush it off…and…Alyce sent a blast of ice into the bath water. She shivered, clutching at the edge of the bath as goose bumps erupted across her skin.

"_Templar…bad…Templar…no-no…"_ she recited to herself. _Unclean Mage…I am not fit to lick his…Boots! Say boots! _

She couldn't think of boots…

_What was a boot again?_

She warmed the bath water once more, feeling her muscles start to seize in the icy water. Eyeing the drying cloth hanging on a wooden rail beside the bath, Alyce told herself it was time to stop feeling sorry for herself. It wasn't as if she didn't embarrass herself on a daily basis. Why should being a complete idiot in front of the most beautiful man in Ferelden be any different?

_There, I said it…_Well, if not fully voiced, she had thought it. It was the first step to dealing with this inappropriate infatuation and now it was time to stop brooding. She reminded herself that she was a _Mage._ Mages were not considered human. She wasn't allowed to have relationships. Not _those _kinds of relationships…It was hard enough trying to prove one's worth as a magic-user, she didn't need to make it more complicated by attempting to find some kind of life outside the Circle of Magi.

It was impossible.

Decision made, she launched herself from the water, snagging the cloth while she stood on the top step of the bath. Mostly dry, she tied the cloth securely around her upper half and attended to her wet robes, squeezing out the excess water and draping them over the wash stand. The only other robes she had were 'those' robes…Sitting on the edge of her bed, Alyce rifled through her travel pack, pulling out a cleanish pair of smalls. She was engaged in an important smell-test when there was a knock on the door. Dagna's voice called out from the other side.

"It's not locked!" Alyce yelled.

The door opened, Dagna's smile crept around the corner, sheepish and apologetic. "I brought you something to eat…" she began in a conciliatory tone of voice.

Alyce turned her head. "Have I missed dinner…?" she said, eyeballing the contents of the tray. There was a deep wooden bowl of a brownish liquid, some thick slices of bread and a haunch of something that used to belong to a bird on a side plate. Dagna placed it beside her on the bed for easy access.

"Senior Torrin figured you probably weren't up to it and made excuses," Dagna told her. Alyce made a face. _Wonderful, now I have to make it up to Senior Torrin as well…_

Alyce picked up the mug on the tray and sniffed experimentally. It was wine, wonderful. On her empty stomach, it would go straight to her head and she'd probably wander around in a drunken stupor and embarrass herself some more. The leg of fowl was roasted to perfection with some kind of tasty herb, but the smell of it turned her stomach. She picked up the bowl of soup, prodding at its contents. _Vegetables…no meat…_An experimental sip showed it was her best chance of being able to keep this in her stomach, where it might do some good, so she retrieved the spoon and began to eat.

After a while, Dagna cleared her throat. "You know, I'm kind of surprised…"

"Surprised?" Alyce said around a mouthful of cabbage. "How so?"

Dagna lifted her gaze thoughtfully to the fringed canopy above. She gave a shallow shrug. "I didn't expect 'divine' Ryan to be so…" She shot Alyce a cautious look. "So…_old_."

Alyce stared at Dagna.

"After everything you'd said about him," the younger woman continued to explain, "I just expected him to be, well _younger, _less…I don't know…grey?"

_Grey? _Alyce goggled in disbelief. "He's not…! He has plenty of dark hair!"

"Yeah, I know…" Dagna agreed, "but also plenty of the white stuff."

"_Right_ stuff," Alyce corrected her.

"_White_ stuff," Dagna repeated.

"The man is in his thirties," Alyce argued. "He's hardly in his dotage…"

"Thirties!" Dagna exclaimed, wide-eyed. "By the stone, that's practically a fossil!"

"Hey!"

"I just expected you to like…You know I met Lord Aidan Cousland at dinner and…"

"Oh, here we go…" Alyce rolled _her_ eyes this time.

"_Aand_," Dagna jabbed her painfully in the side with a finger. "If I hadn't already met your Ser Ryan, I would have thought Lord Aidan was him."

"Ewr!"

"He's thoroughly good looking, nice form…_great _hair and _those _eyes! Whoo!"

"Yeah…You have to watch him…" Alyce eyed her Apprentice while Dagna made rude gestures continuing to describe in great detail, Aidan Cousland's 'charms'. Rear ends were mentioned, along with teeth…apparently this was important…and ears. His ears were _sexy…_"You know, on second thought," Alyce said, completely and _utterly _horrified, "I think I had better let him know you're armed and dangerous…"

"Aw, Alyce, come on! I'm just going to have a bit of fun…" Dagna said, the innocent look she cast Alyce not working in the _least._

"What happened to the serious study of magic?" Alyce reminded her sternly, also wondering whether she should mention a _certain _Templar…but her conscience wouldn't allow her to. "The pursuit of thaumaturgical knowledge?" she said instead, "Inter-species cooperation? A serious exchange of wisdom…?"

"Tell you what I like to _exchange _with Lord Aidan," Dagna snorted, wiggling her eyebrows. "And it sure ain't _wisdom!_"

"Well exchange this!" Alyce told her over a waggling finger. "One-thousand lines on the lesser known properties of…snail bile!"

"What?" Dagna exclaimed. "That's disgusting!"

"That's magic," Alyce added with a righteous sniff. "By mid-morning tomorrow."

"Aw, Alyce…!"

"And don't you 'aw Alyce' me, or it'll be fifteen-hundred."

Dagna pouted but did not argue. Snail bile…it only had one particular _property, _and it certainly wasn't magic-related. "Anyway," Dagna added with an offended sniff. "Ser Ryan wasn't at dinner so I couldn't make a comparison."

Alyce had been prodding at the roast leg. She had speared it on the end of the fork and held it up for inspection.

"Apparently his nephew is unwell and he was on duty or something…" Dagna said, picking up the mug of wine and grimacing at its contents.

"Niece…" Alyce dropped the leg. "One of the girls has the Fever?" she whispered. "Please tell me it's not the Fever…"

Dagna shrugged. "I don't know…" she said slowly. "She's in the castle, I think…"

Alyce sat staring into space, her dinner and half-empty stomach forgotten. _Which one…_? It didn't matter. "Do you have any idea…?" she began then shook her head. "Never mind. I think I know where they might be." She stood, heading for the door, Dagna's voice causing her to halt half-way.

"Uh…You _are_ going to put some clothes on first, right?" Dagna reminded her. Alyce looked down and grimaced. _'Kay…No._ Returning to her travel pack, she retrieved her spare robes. In minutes she was dressed and heading back to the door.

"Thanks for the reminder, Dagna," she told the dwarf appreciatively. "And as thanks, make that nine-hundred and ninety nine lines about the snail slime."

"Oh…gee…_thanks_,"Dagna sighed. Her glare was wasted, landing on the swinging door and an empty space where her Mentor used to be.

-oo-

The long stone corridors were dim and chilly, but much had been done since she had been here last. Vigil's Keep may have far less importance, but Alyce hoped that Neria's boost to popularity would translate to an extra effort in putting it back together again. Neria did not seem to mind living amongst ruins, but Alyce thought she deserved better than that. She sighed to herself. Neria had come a long way from the very structured and neat lifestyle of the Tower of Magi. There had been changes wrought in her friend that Alyce had not had time to observe until very recently and she was not sure whether it was for the better.

The Neria Alyce had known from the Tower would never have made the kind of 'deal' with an Apostate that she had…or would she? Pausing just outside the chapel entrance, Alyce pondered this question. Neria had done what she had needed to. It would have been a difficult decision, Alyce _knew _that. Still…If it had been her…what would _she_ have done? Would she have done it differently?

How much of Flemeth's possession rite did Neria know before she made that decision? It would have to be a conversation for another day. The two of them had not even had enough time together to bring up Niall's…'special' notes…

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Alyce startled at the sharp voice. One of the Chantry Sisters stood in the doorway, eyeing Alyce's garb with suspicion and deep disapproval. True, they were the ones that Neria had gifted to her all that time ago. Alyce had forgotten how short they were; how chilly her legs were when she wore them, but they felt more comfortable than the standard issue regurgitated-mustard ones issued for Mages at Enchanter-level.

The Sister continued to glare. She was a tallish woman; square-shouldered, white-haired and angular, giving off a Senior Enchanter Wynne vibe that put Alyce immediately on her guard…"Standing _here_, staring off into the distance," Alyce blurted without thinking.

The Sister's chin lifted a touch higher; anger flashed in her remarkably clear, green eyes. "Your flippancy does you no credit, _Mage,_" she snapped, causing Alyce to take a surprised step backwards. _Guh…_she thought dismally. _One of _those…

"Luckily for you," Alyce quipped helpfully, "I'm not here to impress you, Sister. Now, if you will excuse me..."

"I was given no instruction to admit another of your ilk into the House of the Maker." The Sister held her ground. Spreading her arms wide, she barred Alyce's passage into the chapel.

Alyce merely stared. She really didn't have the time, energy or the inclination to deal with middle-aged-witch-paranoia. "Because you have a list of every ilk that needs to walk through here, obviously," she said, impatience beginning to creep into her voice.

Setting her jaw, the Sister stepped up to Alyce. The top of the older woman's head was level with the Mage's nostrils, but faith in her Maker elevated her to rise above one who had been corrupted by evil. Personally, Alyce felt standing on one's tip-toes simply spoiled the impression entirely.

"Begone, evil filth!" the Sister spat. "You will not poison the Maker's sacred grounds..!"

"Oh for the love of…" Alyce tossed an exasperated look heavenwards. "It's just a bloody chapel. Stone, wood…Why'd you Chantry people always have to get all stupidly romantic about a wonky building? It's just ridiculous! I asked nicely," Alyce added, huffing in irritation. "It's not like I threatened to turn you into a goat or anything…"

"Are you threatening _me_?" the Sister demanded suddenly, clutching at her ample chest. "In the house of the Maker?"

"Well…" Alyce pointed out helpfully. "Seeing as you won't let me _in _the actual House of the Maker…No."

"You're…You're _threatening _me…" The Sister's bosom began to heave, as large bosoms were wont to do at times of stress and anxiety, especially if they were attached to persons expressing holy outrage. "How…how _dare _you!"

"Guh…are you just not listening to me?" Alyce asked, throwing up her hands. "Is there something wrong with your hearing?" Raising her voice, Alyce added, "Do I need to speak up and use smaller words so that you…can…un…der…_stand_?"

The Sister pursed her lips, alarming Alyce by starting to hyperventilate.

"Look," Alyce began, reaching out. "I think you need to calm dow…"

"Don't touch me, abomination!" the Sister screeched. "Vile creature! Cursed, corrupted fiend!" Her expression lightened suddenly and she elbowed the Mage out of the way, sending her backwards into the wall. Alyce watched the Sister scurry down the hallway towards two tall figures. As they moved into the light of a wall torch, it was revealed to be Ser Anwyn and Ser Ryan, both in their respective house armour. The Sister clutched at Ser Anwyn's arm, pointing towards Alyce, speaking very fast in a low voice intended not to reach the _Mage._ Ser Anwyn nodded; his expression grim as he listened intently. Finally he raised his head, looking towards Alyce. The Sister, Alyce noted, ducked cowardly behind both men as they advanced, though she popped her head out briefly to shoot a smug look at Alyce.

"Enchanter Amell…" Ser Anwyn began.

"She's in league with demons!" the Sister interjected from behind her Templar barrier. "They all are!"

Ser Anwyn merely waited, until the Sister returned to silence.

"Sister Malady…" he began…

"Melody!" the Sister hissed from behind Ser Anwyn. "It's Sister _Melody_!"

"My apologies…" Ser Anwyn repeated, one corner of his mouth twitching slightly under his moustache. "Sister…_Melody_ claims that you assaulted her and threatened her in the House of the Maker."

Alyce pointed to the open door beside her. "Oh, _this _House of the Maker?" she asked. "Haven't been in it yet. Why?"

"Did you or did you not assault Sister…_Melody_ and threaten her?" Ser Anwyn insisted.

"Of course not! I haven't even touched her!" Alyce exclaimed.

"She's lying!" the Sister interrupted again, outrage burning in her eyes. "She threatened to turn me into an animal of the field…"

"A goat is so not an animal of the field!" Alyce protested loudly. "They like a bit of hay and a nice warm barn to fill up with bottom gases. Don't you know _anything_?"

The other side of Ser Anwyn's mouth twitched now. He cleared his throat quietly. "And the assault?" he queried.

"I was trying to calm her down. No actual physical contact was made," Alyce told him with a shrug.

"You raised your hand to me! Are you implying that I told a falsehood?" Sister Melody demanded, those lovely, clear green eyes fairly popping from her head. "I? A Woman Of The Cloth?"

"Well, true…" Alyce conceded with a wobble of her head. "Cloth never lies…I've got to give you that…"

The Sister's mouth opened and closed on silent, holy epithets. Alyce looked Ser Anwyn directly in the eye. The Templar exhaled loudly. "This is how it stands, Enchanter Amell…" he began once more. Alyce steeled herself. Yes, she did. She knew exactly how these things went: if the word of a Mage were pitted against a Sister of the Chantry, there really was only one outcome and it usually involved a tiny, rat-infested cell somewhere in the bowels of the Mages' Prison, Aeonar…"Unless there are witnesses who are willing to come forward," Ser Anwyn continued solemnly. "I must…"

"…take the word of the very handy witness standing nearby?"

They all peered into the corridor behind Alyce. The voice had emerged from the shadows and there did not appear to be anyone there, until there was a _ripple _in the darkness; a mere suggestion of movement. A moment later Aidan Cousland stepped into the light. Smiling grimly, he explained, "I just happened to be in the area and saw and heard…everything." Placing himself beside Alyce, he added, "Enchanter Amell had merely _paused_ by the Chapel. The good Sister assumed she was about to enter and denied her passage."

"The Chantry accepts all," Ser Anwyn said. He turned to Sister Melody. "Is that not correct, Sister?"

"_All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,_" Cousland recited over clasped hands. "_From the lowest slaves…To the highest kings..._I was given to understand that included Mages as well…"

"M-Mages are a corruption," Sister Melody argued, though in slightly less confident tones. "They caused the Blight…The Maker himself cast them from the Golden City, punished them by turning them into monsters..."

"That's just…!" Cousland began angrily, to be cut off hastily by Ser Anwyn.

"I thank you my lord," the Templar nodded calmly. He bowed to Sister Melody next, "And I thank you for your time, Sister," he told her in the same, even tone, "but it is late and you should not be wandering the corridors of this castle unaccompanied."

"You're right, it is not safe," Sister Melody gave an understanding nod, her gaze shooting bolts of holy righteousness at Alyce. "Not while abominations and evil creatures lurk from the Fade."

Alyce boggled at the woman. _Is she senile? _She wondered. _Or just generally insane?_

"Actually…" Ser Anwyn told her with an apologetic glance at Lord Aidan. "With construction still occurring within these castle walls..."

"Yeah, we'd hate for you to fall down a hole or anything," Cousland interrupted dryly; a comment that skirted outside the Chantry Sister's field of understanding, for she nodded gratefully, thanking Lord Aidan for the solicitous consideration of her safety.

With one final glare at Alyce, she pressed herself up against the wall, shrinking past Alyce into the Chantry chapel. She curtseyed to the men then swung the heavy wooden door behind her. There was a dull wooden clunk and a metallic click. Alyce's jaw dropped.

"She's locking us out…"

"Yup," Cousland confirmed, leaning forward slightly, listening. "Seems like it." He leant forward some more, resting his chin on Alyce's shoulder. Angling his head upwards, he made fish-lips at her. "That was good timing on my part," he told her. "How about a kiss as thanks?"

Pushing Cousland's face away, she turned her attention to Ser Ryan. She had intended to ask about his niece, but feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly awkward, she hastily redirected her gaze to Ser Anwyn's breast plate instead.

"Um…" she began uncertainly. "I had better…" Reaching abruptly behind, she grabbed a handful of cloth, yanking it sideways. There was a yelp of pain as she began skirting around the two older men.

"_Ouch_. Alyce. Chest hair…" Aidan Cousland protested, plucking at the sharp fingers digging into his clothes.

"You don't have chest hair…" Alyce hissed at him out of the corner of her mouth.

"I do too," Cousland argued. "Would you like to take a look?"

Throwing Cousland in front of her like a shield, she hustled the young lord past. "Uh…Yeah…Things to do…" she muttered vaguely. Giving Cousland another shove, she hissed. "Petra. Sick rooms. _Now._"

"I thought you knew where you were going?" Cousland raised his eyebrows at her. He threw a quick look over his shoulder. Both Ser Anwyn and Ser Ryan had already left. It was a pity. He might have had a bit of fun, performing in front of his lieutenant.

"Took a wrong turn," Alyce was explaining sourly. "Ended up at the Chapel by mistake…plus I almost fell down a bloody _hole…_"

"Huh…" Aidan Cousland grinned at her. From what Ser Ryan had told him of the Tranquil, this did not appear to have happened to Alyce. Impulsively, he threw an arm around her shoulders, hugging her to his side. It seemed he would not need to remove the dust covers from Daddy's siege engines after all. After a few moments, she pulled away from him. Hunching her shoulders unhappily, she grumped along the corridor; a picture of unhappiness, despite his company.

_Or maybe…_Cousland observed her thoughtfully; he would need a siege engine of a_ different_ kind_…_

-oo-


	46. Dwarf Logic

A/N: I swear these chapters are getting longer and longer…(where's that delete key, when I need it?). I will add to the word count though to thank all you wonderful, dedicated, _patient _people who have read through chapter after chapter of this rather meandering story.

Um…that's all really…and you thought I was going to say something exciting? Um…no. No. Nothing exciting comes to mind actually.

But…thanks again!

Alas, Bioware still has majority ownership of Ferelden real estate.

-oo-

**Chapter 46 – Dwarf Logic**

_Ahem…_Ser Anwyn cast a look at the younger man beside him. He had first met Ryan Tremayne as an initiate, the two of them serving together at various times over a period of twenty years or so. As an instructor and then fellow Soldier of Andraste, Anwyn had come to know Ryan's personality and talents quite well; well enough to know something was not quite right with him.

Should he also mention that they had walked past their intended destination? It appeared that the incident with Sister Malingerer had rattled Ser Ryan. It was most unusual…and very interesting.

_Ahem…_He cleared his throat again. Ser Ryan frowned slightly.

"Should we…" Ser Anwyn began then decided playing the doddery older Templar might work a bit better. He paused, looking one way down the dim corridor and then along the next. "Have I missed my mark, Ser Ryan?" he asked. "I appear to have…Hm, you know this castle better than I. Is the infirmary to the left or further on?"

Ser Ryan's frown deepened. "Pardon?"

"I understand the infirmary has been run like a well-run…" Ser Anwyn paused. Ryan wasn't listening; looking slightly confused. His eyes widened abruptly and he started guiltily at the older man.

"Maker's breath! I'm sorry Ser…I…I appear to have led you astray…" Ser Ryan clapped an flustered hand to his forehead, the colour in his cheeks darkening. "It's…this way, Ser. By the…my _sincere_ apologies…!"

Laughing softly, Ser Anwyn hastily placed his hand on Ser Ryan's arm before the younger man could take off in a rush in the direction the two of them had just come. "Quite alright, Ser Ryan," Anwyn assured him. "Sister Malodorous _did_ prove to be somewhat distracting, I'll admit!"

The ex-Templar frowned again. "Sister…Melody…" Ryan corrected conscientiously, adding, "On that subject Ser, is there likely to be further repercussions from this evening's incident?"

Ser Anwyn gave Ryan a penetrating look. _Hm…_"Oh?" he asked casually. "How so?"

"Al…Enchanter Amell is well regarded in Highever by both the Teyrn's family and the people of Highever, but…The charges laid against her by the Sister are serious, especially if the Sister decides to lodge a complaint with the Denerim Chantry. Lord Aidan may be the Teyrn's son, but he and the Sister have not found a…common ground since she came here."

"They've come to blows before, have they?" Ser Anwyn asked in interest, wondering whether Ser Ryan was on track to proving those _other _rumours true. He would have to wait and see, of course. Ryan was not a stupid man, unlikely to reveal anything he did not want to.

"The Sister has been vocal about the presence of Mages," Ser Ryan continued, while Anwyn tried not to look _too _interested. "She has made her objections known on several occasions. Lord Aidan has been quite vocal in defending them."

Ser Anwyn sighed at this piece of information. "I can imagine." Kneading his knuckles into his forehead, he frowned. "Has the Sister been interfering in the treatment of the sick?" he enquired. If she had, this might turn out to be a far more serious matter than he'd like, especially if lives had been put at risk…

"On more than one occasion," Ser Ryan confirmed grimly. "Mother Mallol has been made aware."

"_Stupid_ woman…oh, not Mallol," Anwyn waved a hand in the air. "That Malignant-woman. What on earth was the Denerim Chantry thinking when they sent her here? I have…no, forget I said that, I think I've just answered my own question."

The two men exchanged a knowing look, Ser Ryan feeling a small pang of guilt. He was quite familiar with Melody's anti-magic stance and always had been. She had never showed any regard for those of the magical persuasion when he had known her, though he had to admit that as a younger woman she had for the most part, kept her opinions to herself.

"If it comes to it," Ser Anwyn added thoughtfully, "you and I can add our testimonies, but as we were not actual _witnesses…_Would the Teyrn be willing to provide a character reference, do you think?"

"I am confident their Excellencies would do so, Ser," Ser Ryan confirmed. "And we should probably return to the infirm…"

"Actually," Ser Anwyn interrupted. "I was going to speak to you in the morning, but this may be a more…convenient time."

Ser Ryan's eyebrows rose quizzically as Ser Anwyn removed the missive that had been threatening to burn a hole through his breastplate this past hour. He handed it to Ser Ryan; whose eyebrows rose substantially higher. On viewing the seal they descended rather rapidly.

Ser Anwyn watched Ryan carefully as he broke the seal and read the contents of the letter. "You knew this was coming, Ser Ryan," Ser Anwyn reminded him gently. The younger man merely nodded. He began to return the narrow scroll to Ser Anwyn but the Templar pushed it back. "Keep it," he instructed Ser Ryan. "We expect you to give the matter serious consideration."

"My circumstances…" Ryan began.

"Don't matter," Ser Anwyn cut him off ruthlessly as Ser Ryan ran a hand of frustration through his hair, dislodging more loose tendrils from his ponytail. "We are aware of your situation," Anwyn added far more gently, "and they _have_ been taken into consideration, regardless what you may believe."

"But you've just _said_…" Ser Ryan argued, showing a streak of rebellion.

Ser Anwyn interrupted with a loud and impatient sigh. "They have been taken into consideration," he repeated firmly, "and have been _reflected _in this request. I expect you to keep that in mind, Ser Ryan."

Feeling forced into a corner, Ryan nodded again, quelling the urge to crush the roll of parchment in his hand and throw it into the nearest flaming wall torch. He had known this would come up sooner or later. It was just that he had simply…lost track of time. When he had agreed to the arrangement, six months had seemed long enough to find some way out, but nothing had occurred to him since then, and he knew he could no longer hide behind the same excuse as before. Very deliberately and precisely, Ser Ryan re-rolled the parchment, carefully retaining it in his hand.

"I realise there may be other considerations," Ser Anwyn told him, indicating the castle walls, "but we will rely on your own good judgement to find a solution." Reaching out, Ser Anwyn gripped Ser Ryan's shoulder sympathetically. "I know this is difficult for you," he said, "but think of the benefits." Anwyn nodded, satisfied, to himself. He had delivered the message and now he was free to concentrate on the _other _task. "I shall expect a firm answer for my return," he concluded.

"Of course," Ser Ryan said obediently, unable to say anything else. He was simply too annoyed at himself to trust himself to speak intelligently.

-oo-

"You know, it's funny, but I've been living here for _years _and I've never been down this way before..."

Morwenna spoke with lightness, but she cast a doubtful look at the overgrown path to Amell Cottage. It was no wonder she had never known the existence of life beyond this darkened, vine-hung forest. Though it was the brightest time of the day, the path was barely visible and did not look particularly inviting. She might have gone past here many times and her subconscious would have simply and conveniently created a blind spot for her every time.

Besides, there had always been…_stories _about this part of Highever. When they were younger, Bryant had taken great delight in telling them about the witch that dwelled in the deep dark, preying on naughty, mischievous children who wandered too close to her domain…The stories had made them both – Ryan and herself – so rigid with terror, they would refuse to go anywhere near this side of the castle for weeks, choosing the long way around if they had to run errands in Highever Village. _A witch that ate children…_

She hung back, trying to convince herself that there was no reason to be afraid. Those old childhood stories had been made up specifically to scare the recalcitrant and defiant into obedience. She did it herself with her own two girls, but childhood fears were _ingrained_ and despite being faced as they were now with a woman who appeared to be afraid of _nothing,_ her skin still prickled with the feel of unseen, grasping fingers at her neck and her heart beat faster, anticipating flight…

Oblivious to Morwenna's mental trembling, Alyce poked at the dense shrubbery with the non-business end of her magic staff. She glowered at it resentfully.

"It's not clearly marked…" she informed the older woman. "It's not like anyone's gone out of their way to signpost the way, so I'm not surprised really."

Resting her staff on her shoulder, Alyce continued to assess the overgrown path. Hands on hips she squinted, "Hey, if I burn this all away, what are the chances the entire forest will go up in flames…?" She glanced upwards at the canopy; hanging low and thick overhead. "Meh, never mind…" she waved a dismissive hand. "This goes up in a fiery conflagration; I'll never hear the end of it…"

"A…Are you sure about this?" Morwenna asked shakily, reaching out to pull Myfanwy closer to her side. Her daughter did not seem to be worried in the least by the gnarly, twisted greenery; instead more interested in keeping her new friend company. It was not surprising that her youngest take to the dwarf so quickly and so thoroughly. Away from her sister, Myf naturally gravitated to the next appropriately sized person and Dagna had a stoat-like cuteness about her. Cuddly…but one wouldn't want to actually…cuddle her…It might have something to do with the crafty weapon hanging by the tiny woman's side; a wide-bladed axe with a blood-stained wooden handle...

"How about a freezing spell?" Dagna too, peered into the crowded path critically. Removing the axe from her side, the dwarf weighed the weapon in her hands with an appraising look. "We could freeze then smash our way through."

Alyce shuddered at the thought of being colder than she already was. Nor did she want to keep young Myfanwy out in these temperatures any longer than necessary, but Amell Cottage was on their way… "We're cold enough as it is," she told Dagna depressingly. "And it'll be too much work."

"We could always continue on to the house," Morwenna suggested with more than a little hope in her voice. "My mother would be pleased to see you again. She'd make you quite welcome."

"Hah!" Alyce exclaimed suddenly, a likely solution presenting itself. "I've just had a brilliant idea!" Gesturing them to stand clear, Alyce aimed the shielded lyrium cage of her mage staff at the path. The temperature plummeted, the forest glowed ice-white…and then she sent an enormous fireball spinning into the darkness. There was a whooshing sound as fire met ice and vegetation. When they stepped back onto the path, it was still slightly warm, branches on either side crackling as they cooled from the heat.

"Right, folks!" Alyce propped her still-smoking staff onto her shoulder like a broom and marched forward. "Follow me!"

Pocketing notebook and charcoal after some hasty notes, Dagna scurried after the Mage, Myfanwy close on the dwarf's coat-tails. Morwenna stood twisting the toggles on her cloak nervously, until she realised she would be left far behind if she did not follow soon. Would she have felt better had one of those great hulking Templars accompanied her? She knew personally that men weren't immune to injury or death, but it would have been nice having an armoured decoy to throw at an enemy…_If _there was an enemy, that is…Realistically, the logical part of herself reasoned, the worst anyone was likely to encounter was a blight fox or an angry squirrel…

With that thought in mind, Morwenna gritted her teeth, plunging into the gloomy path after the others. The child in her might be terrified, but the adult was curious to find out whether those stories about the witch were actually true…her eyes seeking out the bright pillar of silver and pewter that was Alyce.

The path turned several times and it seemed to her that the forest grew darker and more closed in as their party travelled on. Even after the mage's freezing and burning, the path was still crowded, the ground dangerously uneven; the meagre light granted by the dwarf's torch barely enough to illuminate the odd rabbit hole and exposed tree root. And then, abruptly, the forest gave way to a neat clearing, an imposing block of a house observing them expectantly at the end. From what Alyce had told her of her old home, Morwenna had expected a wreck of a place, but there were signs that repairs had been done recently. The snow and dirt had been swept from the garden paths and the hedges had been tamed into ordered rows.

Morwenna looked around, impressed by the scale and elegance of the property, her gaze sliding back towards Alyce. It appeared those of magical ability truly came from all walks of life (except perhaps dwarves); the ordinary, the insignificant…the noble…She sighed, feeling a touch of envy as well as pity. It must have been nice growing up in such a large house; but it must also have been incredibly lonely.

She continued to wander down the twisting gravel paths, trying to imagine what the garden would be like in the spring. There was a pond, presided over by a pink marble woman; Andraste-like and elegant, though Morwenna had never heard of the Prophet being described as so scantily-clad. The water from the pond had been drained to avoid cracking over winter and the curving bridge looked new.

"Something strange is going on…" Alyce remarked nearby. She sounded irritated. The mage stood on the bridge, slowly spinning as she took in the changes to her immediate surroundings. "Something is definitely…The garden was all lovely and wild the last time we were here," she frowned. "Someone's been mucking about with mother nature!" Jamming a fist on a hip, she scowled in disapproval. "And when I find out who it is, I'm going to turn their _insides out, _pour salt on them and then I'm throwing them to my _dwarf…_!"

"Hey!" came a cry of protest from the other side of a hedge. Two pigtails bobbed briefly above the leafless branches, followed by two rather peeved blue eyes. "I heard that!"

Morwenna hid a nervous smile as the two Tower companions bickered about 'trained dwarves'. It was a convenient distraction. Sidling up to the statue, she plucked at the rough wool coat behind her back. It had been hanging from the statue's podium. She flicked it behind a pile of leaves, knowing full well who it belonged to. She'd had no idea until now what her twin brother had been doing on his days off and now she _did. How in the Prophet's Name had he been finding the energy to do all of this_, she wondered?

"Oh Ryan…" Morwenna muttered under her breath, watching Alyce rattle the locks on the front door. "What have you been doing?"

"Why? Is there a problem?"

Morwenna spun. Ryan stood a short distance away, a _hoe _balanced on his right shoulder. Casting a panicked look at Alyce, she tried to push him out of sight…too late, the dwarf had been facing towards them and shouted out a cheerful greeting. Alyce turned slowly as though encased in treacle, her eyes growing wide.

Before Alyce could stop her, Dagna skipped up to the ex-Templar and his sister. "Oh, _hulloooo_!" she repeated enthusiastically. She pointed to Ser Ryan's shoulder. "Ooh, is that a hoe? You use that for _gardening, _don't you?" Throwing a sly look towards her taller, less voluble friend, she added. "Isn't that right, Alyce? Hoes are for _gardening_?"

"Ngn…" Alyce continued her turn, completing a three-hundred and sixty degree revolution to end up facing away from them all. She began to walk away, shoulders visibly slumped.

"What?" Dagna called after her, turning briefly to wiggle her eyebrows at brother and sister, "No turning inside out? No salting?" As Alyce walked further away, the dwarf raised her voice. "Do you want me to bite him, just as a warning for mucking up your nature?"

Feeling sorry for the young mage, Morwenna gave Dagna's shoulder a shake. "Give the girl some space, Dagna," she said quietly.

Dagna shrugged, unrepentant. "After the hand cramp I developed writing line after line about slug and snail slime…" Catching Morwenna's well-practised look of reproach, she rolled her eyes. "Oh, very well…You know she's just going to set me fifty-thousand lines on the improper magical use of…spitballs or something…"

Encouraged by Morwenna's poorly stifled guffaw, Dagna rocked on the heels of her boots, casting an intent look up at Ser Ryan.

"Nug-humper…!" she exclaimed. "You're not actually bad looking for an ol…I mean, you're…" Dagna gave the tall human male a long, hard look. "By the stone, I think I can understand why Alyce is smitten, once you…you know…" She waved a hand vaguely at him. "Overlook the gr…also you have…" _rather nice shoulders…_she realised. "And a…" _Ooh…long legs. I like long legs. Who would have thought I would ever learn to appreciate someone by the length of their appendages…?_

"_Srnkk…!_" she snorted suddenly. "_Appendages_…!" Clapping a hasty hand over her mouth, she muttered indistinctly, "Ooh, did I just say that out loud? Sorry!" It was all she could do to stop herself from whipping out her notebook to write that down for…_later._

At this latest pronouncement, Morwenna dropped her head into her hands, groaning softly. After a second, curiosity got the better of her and she risked a peek up at her brother. His ears were pink, but his expression was wooden as a bench. She transferred her gaze to the dwarf…who offered her a cheeky wink.

Clasping her hands behind her back, Dagna continued cheerfully, ruthlessly and solidly determined. She was working on a hypothesis that if Alyce wasn't haring about the countryside being all lovelorn and pathetically defiant about _not _being lovelorn, then maybe she would let her learn _real _magic for a change…like those Tevinter devices she'd caught far too tantalisingly brief glimpses of, passing the 'special' storeroom once. Dagna had been simply _itching _to take one apart and analyse it. What was the composition of the metal used? Had it been cast _specifically _to absorb magic? How much lyrium had been involved? What grade and had it been enhanced with other minerals? There had been so much she could do and so much she could learn, but Alyce Amell disliked magic almost as much as she disliked mages…and apart from the raw, shielded lyrium in her hand-me-down mage staff, Alyce pretty much stayed away from lyrium. It had been _most_ disappointing.

"Well…" There was the faintest hint of a protruding bottom lip when Dagna continued. "You may be old, but I suppose a more experienced lover might be good for Alyce."

Alongside Dagna, Morwenna squeaked, still hiding behind her hands.

"Although…" the dwarf threw another considering look upwards at Ser Ryan. Her gaze didn't have to travel as far when talking with Ser Hanleigh, but her neck was developing a permanent crick from having to deal with walking bean poles day in, day out.

"According to _Alyce, _she's had hundreds, _thousands _of, you know…_men, _partners, encounters, ships passing randomly in the night…or sheep; take your pick…fluffy little things…lovely long eyelashes…just doing…_it_…sheepishly…"

Unable to watch any more, Morwenna turned away, wishing she had hands enough to cover her ears as well. Her brother meanwhile, continued to stare expressionlessly at the dwarf.

"Or you know," Dagna said with a sigh, because she had come to the conclusion this wasn't as much fun as she hoped it would be. "She could be lying between her teeth and trying to cover up the fact that she feels uselessly, pathetically inadequate around you. She has this _thing, _you see," she explained in a far more serious tone of voice. "About being a _mage._ She thinks she doesn't deserve to be loved, or liked. That people can't see beyond the robes and the mage staff and the sparkly fingers…

"Of course, she's _completely _forgotten that she has absolutely no control over these sorts of things…like hearts and feelings of her own…" Dagna shrugged again. "You do realise, don't you," she addressed Ser Ryan with an intense, almost accusatory glare, "that Alyce is head over heels in lus…love with you."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Though, with Alyce that doesn't mean she's stopped falling over…" She frowned. "Or improved her falling over…" She shrugged. "No, the quality or frequency of falling over has not improved or changed in anyway…Oh sod it," she waved her fists at him. "Say something already! She _loves _you, okay?"

She turned briefly to Morwenna, the poor woman still peeking between the gaps of her fingers and trying desperately not to laugh.

"And yeah," Dagna added, "I _know _that when she finds out what I've said to _him…_" she jerked her thumb back at the still-silent Ser Ryan, "She will unleash new and hitherto unknown and novel ways to make me pay…horribly…possibly involving spikes…and rats. She always mentions rats, for some reason…I don't know why that is…_mages, _huh?"

After rendering her audience perfectly speechless, Dagna turned her gaze upwards. Looking worried, she addressed the sky, "So, the question is…" she continued, "whether you love _her…_? You do, right?"

Ser Ryan observed the dwarf a long while. He was beginning to form some idea why the First Enchanter might have apprenticed a non-magical individual with one of the most talented young magic users he had come to know. He almost wished that he had been witness to the moment when she had been told she would be mentoring a dwarf. After too long a pause, Ser Ryan swung the hoe off his shoulder, the heavy metal head gouging the gravel at his feet.

"I do," he said simply, allowing himself the luxury of an exasperated eye-roll at his sister's soft gasp. His eyes automatically travelled to the empty space that Alyce Amell had occupied barely minutes ago. "But I am not in a position to act upon mere...feelings."

"Nug crap…" Dagna responded, annoyed by this answer. "What _is _your problem? You're not a Templar anymore, right? It's all good."

Ser Ryan stared at the ground. _Good? _he mused. _It was never going to be any good…_And now that he'd been recalled back to the Order…

How to explain this to someone who had not spent most of their lives associating in some way with The Circle or Chantry?

_Andraste's smouldering brassicas_…_It appears that I'm doomed to the same answer every time…_

"I am not worthy," he sighed. It was all he could think of, under the circumstances.

-oo-


	47. The Invisible Templar

A/N: Creeping…creeping…creeping to that first half century…I feel like an Ashes batsman…Hoping not to get caught out (why does that sound so much better in my head?). Anyway, bit of a sticky wicket this, but be assured there's been absolutely no ball tampering whatsoever; even if this may be a maiden over for Ser Ryan…(and that _definitely _sounded better in my head…). Hm, maybe I should just stop trying to be funny…?

Okay, here's the chapter…

-oo-

**Chapter 47 – The Invisible Templar**

Alyce stumped along the perimeter of the old house, muttering dark curses and politically incorrect statements about _dwarves…_She knew Dagna meant well, but she was getting a bit tired of the amateur matchmaking. Alright, she _liked _Ser Ryan. A lot. Enough to try kissing him _and_ it was a complete and utter disaster. _Fine. _She had learned her lesson. She wasn't going to attempt it again. It was done. Finished. Did she have to be reminded of her failure over and over again?

What did Dagna want from her? Besides that is, the entire collective knowledge of every mage in Thedas…Admit her feelings? She'd already acknowledged the whole…_liking_ bit…She didn't feel that she needed to shout it from the mountain tops, or from some poor individual's roof…or sing across a river…or was it a ford? Fjord? _I've never seen a fjord…It's an Anders thing, right?…Typical…Wonder if you can make them into pets…_? Regardless of fords, fjords, streams, mountains and rooftops, Alyce didn't think her personal life was anyone else's business and she was done with public discussions of her love life (or lack thereof).

Wasn't Dagna supposed to be busy learning magic?

Clearly, Alyce reasoned, she hadn't been keeping Dagna _busy _enough. The dwarf had gotten through all the junior primers alright, and she'd shown a talent for herbalism, but that was just the tip of the iceberg…_never seen an iceberg either…so I'm just going on pure description here…_It was just _difficult, _trying to work out how to teach magic to a person who couldn't actually practice it. It was like teaching someone how to cook when they weren't able to eat. Alyce was still trying to get her head around that one and mages never actually stopped learning. There were mages that spent their entire lives being students of magic. Niall had been like that; always looking, always searching; with a memory that never filled up with too much information. Minds that never forgot; thinking, analysing, turning things inside out and back to front to see how they worked and then making them work in ways that the original maker had never intended. And always, _always _two steps ahead of everyone else.

She paused in her circuit of the garden, sighing icicles from an overhanging tree branch. _Maker, I miss that man…_Niall would have known how to deal with Dagna. He'd always made learning easy. Of course, he would also have been pants-wettingly terrified of her at the same time, but Alyce could not imagine even Dagna being immune to the innate sweetness of her old mentor. She doubted the dwarf would have found such pleasure in tormenting _Niall…_

Alyce wondered what her former mentor would have thought of her stupid infatuation with a _Templar…_

_Probably nothing_…

Niall had never asked, never interfered. He never took…he always gave…of his time, his knowledge, his patience. Torrin had been a tough teacher, but Alyce had always felt that if she managed even a tenth of Niall's level, she could consider herself a great mage. She hoped the Circle realised how much they had lost…or was she being over-sentimental?

Being a mage had certainly seemed less…_irritating _when Niall had been alive.

She cleared the far side of the house, squeezing through a broken gate that Ser Ryan had as yet to de-charm with _fixing_. She stood, arms crossed, surveying the squares and neatly raised beds of Aunt Mildred's herb and vegetable garden. The ground was still bare, but the trellises had been fixed, the boxes reinforced with stakes; no doubt in preparation for things to grow. She couldn't resent Ser Ryan for that. In the warmer months Aunt Mildred and Serenna would benefit from the things that grew here…and the carefully prepared rows in the soil had clearly been done by someone who knew what they were doing.

Who knew Ser Ryan was such a know-it-all green thumb? It almost made her like him more…Almost. Just not enough to attempt to suck on his face again. No amount of tilling, furrowing and planting seed on his part was worth the embarrassment. She paused, rolling her eyes at her choice of words. _I really have been spending far too much time with that dwarf…_

She continued on past the garden beds and bare fruit trees to the far end of the property. Here the wild grass was long and brown, rippling a welcome on her approach to the narrow cottages backing onto wide farmland beyond. From the central chimney, the thinnest tendril of smoke inched its way across the pale afternoon sky. Alyce watched it disappear beyond the roofline, wondering whether she should have sent a note or some kind of announcement that she was in the area. She didn't want to inconvenience her aunt by a surprise visit…On the other hand, she could not be in the area and _not_ drop by at the very least to see how her aunt fared.

Wavering between continuing on and turning away, Alyce spent too long thinking about which option to take when in the end, she found the decision made for her.

The door to her aunt's cottage opened and Serenna, her aunt's elven maidservant spied her contemplating the ground at her feet.

A slow, pleased smile curving across her pretty face, Serenna lifted her chin and called out, "Strange…Your aunt was just talking about you…"

Alyce's head snapped up. She returned Serenna's smile somewhat sheepishly. Holding out her hand, fingers splayed, she commented, "And people wander where I get my ability to conduct random conversations from…"

Serenna laughed. She opened the door, beckoning Alyce inside. "I'm sure your…" she began, when a cranky voice interrupted them.

"Serenna! Is that you?" Alyce heard her aunt call out irritably. "Andraste's knickers woman, you're sucking all the warm air out! Close the damn door…Hah!" Her aunt's voice abruptly changed in tone as Alyce stepped inside. "Still chilling your knees, I see…"

Automatically tugging down the hem of her robes, Alyce stared in wonder at her aunt. Behind her, Serenna chortled, "I'll just get going then, mistress Amell. I'll see you later at supper time."

Serenna pulled the door closed, plunging them both into darkness. It took more than a few moments for Alyce's eyes to adjust to the meagre light thrown by the central floor stove. She did not dare move until they did, afraid of tripping over something important.

"You just going to stand there like a pillar girl?" her aunt's voice sliced through the dim. "What's this, eh? Staying close to the exit just in case you need to run?"

Alyce began edging around the walls of the room hyper-cautiously. "How did you know I was wearing these robes?" she asked, just making conversation. "For that matter, how did you know it was me?"

"Huh," Mildred rustled. "You've been around mages too long girl. Have you forgotten what magic smells like? I haven't…and the shorty-short slip of material you're trying to pass off as clothing was a guess," Mildred added smugly, "which you confirmed for me."

Aunt Mildred patted the space beside her. "Oh come and sit down, I don't bite…much. You know that."

Gradually able to see more in the tiny room, Alyce moved more confidently, shuffling towards the bed where her aunt presided over crocheted rugs and thick woollen blankets, ramrod straight and square shouldered. Alyce gingerly sat on the indicated space, afraid the addition of her weight on the elderly wooden cot might cause it to collapse. Her aunt might be reed-thin, but she was not a small woman. Perched on the edge of the cot, Alyce heard her aunt sigh softly. Bony fingers sought out chilly ones, grasping them tightly.

"I'm glad you're back child," her aunt said quietly.

Alyce looked over at her aunt. Tugging her hand free, she wrapped both arms about Aunt Mildred's shoulders. Burying her face into her aunt's hair she inhaled deeply, smiling…_cabbages and roses…_

"Thank you Aunt Mildred…"

It was the smell of home.

-oo-

"And they didn't leave you a note, man?"

"Well…"

Aidan Cousland glared at the Templar impatiently. The castle was deserted…Well, not _deserted…_deserted, but…people were still obviously here. His father and Fergus were hiding in the study as usual, his mother in deep discussion with the cook about dinners and lunches and other things that cooks were normally hired for. The servants had been extra busy lately, scrubbing floors and walls that had already been scrubbed, polishing metal and glass to such a shine it hurt one's eyes to walk past them during the sunniest part of the day.

Winter Solstice had come and gone and the days were becoming noticeably longer, though not long enough for him. Satinalia week was barely a couple of days away…and the mages had…disappeared.

"Aren't Templars supposed to accompany mages when they're out in public?" Aidan demanded. "Why aren't you with them?"

Ser Hanleigh glanced down at the young, bristling lord; he appeared to resemble – under Hanleigh's nervous gaze - a rabid hedgehog. It made Hanleigh resolve to be even more cautious. Lord Aidan was technically Ser Ryan's superior officer; a bit like the Knight Commander. He didn't want to make the young lord angry, just in case Ryan got into trouble, but he honestly didn't know where the others went. All he knew was that Senior Torrin told him to wait until they returned from their secret mage business, elsewhere…As for Enchanter Amell…

"I'm…um…" Ser Hanleigh carefully tied up his end of the rope before letting go of the ladder; scratching thoughtfully at the top of his head. There was a metal _ding_ as metal met metal.

Aidan eyed the Templar's helm in irritated bewilderment. The Templars were famous for their beautiful, showy armour…what idiot had decided to cap it off with an upended ice bucket? Whoever had made the decision, it had _stuck_. It made Templars imposing only if they didn't wear the thing. Even as a boy, Aidan had always felt compelled to insert loose change into the eye-slot of every helm-wearing Templar when the family visited the Amaranthine Chantry…

"Why don't you just take off the helm, for Maker's sake?" Aidan asked.

"Oh..." Ser Hanleigh leaned in. "I can't, your lordshipliness, I'm _hiding_."

Hiding? Aidan's gaze took in the rest of the Templar's garb…He was indeed wearing the Templar plate armour…with the obvious pauldrons and the bright symbol of Andraste's burning sword blazing even more obviously in the centre of his chest plate. If that had not been enough of a hint, there was the long, ankle length tunic worn underneath that always made him think of his mother's drawing room drapes…and the elaborately tied sash; both in the same, bright maroon and gold colour scheme. Taking a step backwards, Aidan folded his arms across his chest.

"You're hiding…how?"

"Shh!" Ser Hanleigh waved a warning hand. "Not so loud. She might find me and then…" He stood twisting the sash on his tunic between nervous, gauntleted hands. "She'll make me _pray _with her again."

"Pray?" Aidan stared.

"Yes, your lordyship." He threw a frightened look over his shoulder…or at least, the Templar _implied _fear seeing as Ser Hanleigh's face was not actually on display to convey emotion. "_Pray…_" he whispered hoarsely.

"You're a Templar," Aidan stated. "This 'praying' thing…You _are_ expected to do this from time to time…or so I was given to understand." Unless Brother Aldous was wrong…and Brother Aldous was rarely wrong, especially when it came to Chantry history and the like. Of course, in his later years, Brother Aldous found it hard telling the difference between a cucumber and a cow…

"Certainly, but Sister…" Ser Hanleigh threw another nervous look over his shoulder. "She makes me _kneel_, Your Lordlingness. My cuisses don't half hurt when they're being shoved up my backside…"

It took Aidan several tense seconds attempting to dislodge _that _image from his head and he had to give it a couple of shakes before it was ready to depart; taking any loose silverware with it...He knew exactly what piece of armour Ser Hanleigh had been talking about, _obviously_. It just sounded…_weird _when he said it…

"You don't think…" Aidan began deliberately slowly, "that being _dressed _as a Templar might be a tad…obvious? Perhaps you should try some kind of _actual _disguise…?"

"Shh!" Ser Hanleigh pleaded. "She'll hear…and I'm wearing my helm Your Lordshipness. If I'm very, very quiet, she'll just pass by and it'll be alright…"

Aidan stared. Again.

And then he stared some more.

"You think if you're wearing your helm, Sister…and I'm guessing we're talking about Sister Melody here…will simply walk past?" _No one can be that stupid…_Aidan thought desperately. _Hey, _I'm _not that stupid…And that's pretty stupid…_The sound of footsteps carried from the far end of the stone corridor. Ser Hanleigh turned hastily towards the wall, freezing into position. Aidan caught Sister Melody's impressive figure outlined in the lamplight at the end, her silhouette shaped by the warm glow of orange and gold flame.

She appeared to peer down their passageway. "Hello? Ser Hanleigh?" she called out.

As there appeared to be actual people to question this way, the Sister marched towards them, halting before Aidan with a frown. "Oh, it's you," her eyebrows snapped together, clearly displeased. "Have you seen that Templar? Ser Hanleigh? I've been looking all over for him."

Torn between irritation at being addressed by Sister Maddening in such a brisk tone of voice and wonderment that there really_ did_ exist someone that stupid, he chose the former. With a force of will only a Cousland could summon, Aidan purposely and with great determination did _not _look at Ser Hanleigh standing rigid as a block between them.

"I…I'm afraid to inform you that I have not seen Ser Hanleigh...recently," Aidan managed.

Presented with this piece of information, Sister Melody stamped a delicate foot. "Oh, where could that man be?" she said, exasperated. Aidan shrugged. Spreading his arms wide, his left hand collided with Ser Hanleigh's back plate. It resonated like a gong, calling barbarians to battle.

"Oh, you know on second thoughts," Aidan told her hastily, "I believe I saw him, not that long ago in the training yard."

"Training yard?" Sister Melody exclaimed. "What on this Maker-blessed earth could he be doing _there?_"

"Training…maybe…?" Aidan suggested; his head spinning. "Just a guess…"

"That's on the other side of the castle," she told him, not pleased. Patting invisible stray hairs from the tightly wound bun at the back of her head, she sighed. "I suppose I had better head over there now…Thank you Ser…"

_It's 'lord' to you, you dimwitted tunip bulb…_Aidan glared at her departing back. It was only after she turned the corner did he catch a great sigh of relief whistling from under the thick metal plate of the Templar's helm. Reaching up, Ser Hanleigh removed the helm from his head, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm.

"Phew!" Ser Hanleigh sighed again. "That was close! And it's my thanks to you, your lordlingship. I am most grateful."

"Well…" Aidan decided _acceptance _was the only way to retain his sanity. "We can't have cuisses going up your bottom, can we?"

"No! And I'm most relieved for it, let me tell you, Your Lordyness and um…" Stuffing the helm under an arm, Ser Hanleigh bowed deeply. "I am glad I got to speak to you, Lord Aidan. I wanted to thank you most personally for looking after our Ryan…Ser Ryan that is."

Aidan waved a dismissive hand in the air. It had hardly been a case of looking after Ser Ryan, but of Ryan looking after _them. _The man had become quite indispensable in such a short time. So much so that both Fergus and his father had made _plans. _Though nothing had been confirmed, they had discussed offering a captaincy to Ser Ryan. The position of Commander of the Guard in Amaranthine had also become vacant; following the previous Commander's demise during the darkspawn attack…not to mention Fergus had been eyeing Ser Ryan for a more personal position in his own guard, though Aidan was fully prepared to fight that one…

"He's looking as hale and hearty as we could wish," Ser Hanleigh continued. "The air in Highever must have done him some good. He'll be fit as a boodle when he returns to the Tower."

"Well, that's wonderful n…_what?"_ Had he just heard his ears correctly, Aidan stared.

"Oh yes," Ser Hanleigh confirmed cheerfully confident. "I'd heard they passed over Knight Commander Harrith and Ser Anwyn himself, amongst others." Ser Hanleigh smiled, proud of his friend's achievements. "Well…owing to Ser Harrith coming under investigation…something about lyrium…and Ser Anwyn retiring middle of next year there wasn't anyone else really. Darkspawn took a lot of good men…Maleficars destroyed many more," Ser Hanleigh added sadly, "but the Maker saw fit to preserve our Ser Ryan through all these woes." He grinned sunnily. "He'd make a wonderful Knight Commander, don't you agree?"

"Knight Commander," Aidan repeated, his head spinning anew.

"Oh yes. Greagoir…That is, _Knight Commander _Greagoir – he's the head of all the Templars in Ferelden, you know – has been quite keen on Ser Ryan to replace him for some time. It's quite an honour."

"But I thought…" Aidan could look no further than the flaming sword on Ser Hanleigh's chest and then only with growing resentment. "Ser Ryan can't do all that…" he waved his hands about, "all that Templar smiting and stuff."

Ser Hanleigh frowned. "Oh no…He can just fine. Seems whatever prevented him from performing his Templar duties appears to be fixed. It's quite wonderful."

"And…" Aidan addressed the sword of Andraste, "Ser Ryan knows this? About the Knight Commander…thing?"

"I suppose so," Ser Hanleigh waggled his head from side to side, considering. "Ser Anwyn must have delivered the order by now."

"I see." _I…see…And when was he going to tell his current employers, _Aidan thought, clenching his fists, though the reasonable part of him reminded him that Ser Ryan might not have had a chance…Except that today was a rostered day off…If _that _wasn't considered _a chance, _then what would?

Aidan knew where Ryan went on his days when he was not on duty…

Spinning on his heel, Aidan started down the long corridor, leaving behind a baffled Ser Hanleigh. Stopping for the briefest moment at the armoury to grab a heavy cloak, Aidan threw it over himself in transit. He almost collided with Fergus as he left the armoury; his older brother jumping aside hastily or be flattened in passing. Fergus called after him, asking him where he was going in such a hurry. Aidan did not stop to answer, throwing over his shoulder; "_Amell Manor!_" in clipped, angry tones that left Fergus scratching his head in bewilderment and looking a great deal like Ser Hanleigh without his ice bucket...

-oo-

Alyce noted her aunt shield her eyes from the afternoon sun – weak as it was, the change in brightness hurt her eyes – as they emerged from the cottage. She wished her aunt would spend more time out in the fresh air, but Aunt Mildred never had good things to say about air out in the countryside. As far as she was concerned, it came second hand from cows, and birds _pooped _in it. Therefore it was not particularly healthy for anyone. Aunt Mildred preferred her own, private air, thank you very much, untainted by beasts of the field and fly-by polluters.

Arranging the thick shawl higher up her aunt's shoulders, Alyce felt a sudden stab of uncertainty. "You're sure about this?" she asked.

"Huh…" Aunt Mildred snorted. Alyce found her chest being poked rather hard by a sharp and bony finger. "Change your mind already? Since when did you become so fickle?"

"I was always fickle, Aunt Mildred," Alyce told her with a self-deprecating smile.

"Nonsense, Amells are never fickle," her aunt sniffed with well-earned self-righteousness. "It's the world around us that decides to change."

Alyce turned her eyes onto the brown and copper-green block that was her childhood home. Well, her childhood home of six or so years anyway. The old place really did need a lot of work, but like Cousland Castle, the place had been built to withstand the elements and the passing of time. It had been designed to age…and age well, resisting decay with stubborn dignity. _Not change...? _Perhaps...

"Urh…" Aunt Mildred waved a disgusted hand in the air, as though warding off a bad smell or an irritating peddler of badly-made goods. "I'm going back inside." Giving Alyce's sleeve a tug, she added mysteriously, "Come by tomorrow. I…have something to give you." She jabbed her walking cane into the doorframe of her cottage. "Not now though. Not now…You had better go and see that Templar of yours. The one that keeps forgetting his skirt…" She stopped under the lintel, half turning. "And tell that dwarf of yours she can stop nicking my herb seeds. They have no magical properties and won't grow any golden geese, funny men in green tights or ogres."

"I…I wasn't!" a small voice called out from behind a trellis. "I was just…"

Aunt Mildred turned to face the rather stunted pear tree in the far corner. She raised her stick lance-like and barked, "If I say _nicking _girl, it's nicking! So you can put those back where you found them!"

Having delivered her warning, along with an unnerving, sightless glare, Aunt Mildred returned to the warmth and dark of her cottage, the door closing with a very final thud. Alyce shrugged…then aimed a sliver of lightning at a garden bed a few metres away. There was a yelp and Dagna sprung to her feet; her hands suspiciously tucking behind her back. Alyce advanced on her.

"Trust me Dagna," she told her Apprentice. "If my aunt says put them back, you should put them back…"

Dagna tossed a pleading look towards her mentor. "These are _rare_, Alyce…! Wide-leafed Silvertongue…If we can grow these in the greenhouse back at the Tower…"

"_Back_, Dagna…" Alyce told her firmly, eyeing the grey-leafed plant sitting close to the soil's surface, like lichen. "The Circle does not condone theft. When the plant produces seed, we can make a formal request of my aunt. Until then…"

Stretching her hand out over the garden bed, Dagna tipped its contents over the soil. Dusting her hands, she cast her eyes downwards. "Sorry," she murmured. Alyce reached out and pinched the nearest freckled cheek. Dagna grimaced. "What will it be this time?" Dagna asked in depressed tones. "Ten-thousand lines on the proper care and maintenance of distillation flasks? Twenty-thousand paragraphs discussing the occupational hazards of hemp matches? Or will it be fifty-thousand pages about the Ferelden Lesser Flea and its unique symbiotic relationship with acid peat?"

Alyce transferred her hand easily from Dagna's cheek to the top of her head. Giving it a hard and painful pat, she said reassuringly; "I don't think there's enough parchment in Ferelden...We are _post-war,_ you know. There are shortages and…Acid peat? Really?"

"There's an entire page in Brother Dumlin's _A Study of the Commone Domestic Pestes of Ferelden_…"

"Pestes?" Alyce asked, wide-eyed.

Dagna nodded. "Brilliant scholar," she said. "Bad speller."

Regarding her student in both awe and terror, Alyce patted the top of the carrot-red head once more, though far more gently this time.

"I am so glad you're getting out more," she told the dwarf. "Maybe we can find you another hobby too…" She sighed, reminding herself…_busy…_She needed to keep Dagna's brain occupied with all the stuff that she had left caste and family to pursue…"No lines for a while. I'm running out of places to put them. No, I…I want you started on the Six Pillars of Magic, starting with the _Malum Garrulus Maleficarum._"

Dagna's head bobbed up, as though fired by springs. Her blue eyes were wide and shining. "The…the…" Clasping her hands together, she began bouncing up and down on the spot in excitement. "In the original Avvar script?" she asked breathlessly.

"If you wish…"

Squealing in delight, Dagna did a little dance on the spot. She threw her arms around Alyce's middle. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"Yeah. Okay, little miss limpet…" Alyce attempted to prise the dwarf off, "Just don't tell Ser Ryan or Ser Anwyn okay?"

"Tell Ser Ryan what?"

One of the objects of her warning came around the side of the house, closely followed by Morwenna; her daughter perched on her hip. Forcing herself to stand her ground, Alyce waited for the group to approach. Dagna sprang away, dancing circles around Morwenna, causing Myfanwy to giggle. Alyce watched them for a moment, aware that Ser Ryan was rapidly closing the distance between them.

"The Six Pillars of Magic are only permitted to be studied by Harrowed Mages…" Ser Ryan started when Alyce interrupted him.

"And is a perfectly _safe _subject for a person who cannot perform magic," she told him, half-smiling at Dagna's antics. "Indeed for someone almost resistant to most forms of it, I really don't see any issues…" Ser Ryan folded his arms at her; a Templar stance she was quite familiar with. Any minute now there would be…yes, there it was; a slight lift of the chin and the stare down the length of the nose…"For someone who had to ask what we were discussing," she also told him quietly, "you seem to have heard quite a lot."

Ser Ryan shifted his gaze away, to some point beyond her right shoulder. "Alyce…" he began. "I…n-want to speak to you."

"You already are," she pointed out.

A wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows and his gaze snapped back to hers. "You're not making this easy for me," he sighed.

"Well, I am a _mage. _Since when did mages ever go easy on Templars?" she asked, a single eyebrow lifting on her forehead. "But it works out quite well, this way," she added hastily, before her bravado began to run out. "Because I'd like to speak to you too."

-oo-


	48. Proposition

A/N: Meh…Weekly updates…This one came together a lot faster than anticipated, so here 'tis…

-oo-

**Chapter 48 – Proposition**

_What is it about these sorts of places…? _Torrin thought with an inner shudder, peering uselessly into the thick, almost opaque cloud of throat scorching smoke. _Everywhere one goes, always the same thing…One could build an entire career out of creating the right atmospheres for places such as these…_Still, he added to himself; hopefully the inconvenience of second-hand, stale smoke, the overwhelming odour of the unwashed working classes and unpleasant, pervasive _stickyness _would be worth it.

_We shall see…_

An encouraging clink of ceramic approached with a determined clatter through the heavy fog of combined human effluvium. There were few elves here, Torrin noted with approval. Luckily for Thedas, there was at least _one_ responsible race in the world...Then Ser Anwyn appeared, red-eyed from the smoke and squinting into the poorly lit corner where Torrin had been waiting for his return. The Templar placed the samples carefully on the space cleared by the Senior Enchanter, arranging them into a previously agreed order.

Torrin bent over the table, risking a freshly-laundered sleeve by perching it on the sticky wood surface, watching Ser Anwyn position the second row with a critical eye. The Templar then disappeared into the fog to return with the third. Both men observed their acquisitions with practiced, experienced eyes. The Senior Enchanter picked up the first of the flasks, raising it to eye-level.

"Promising…" he murmured.

"The Red-Eye comes with a hearty recommendation, Senior Enchanter," Ser Anwyn added to Torrin's initial, monosyllabic assessment. "As does Brown's Cow."

Torrin nodded slightly. "We shall see," he voiced his earlier thought. It was still early days and there was yet plenty of time for research and development. "One can't be too careful," he reminded Ser Anwyn sternly, "in times of _war…_"

Ser Anwyn smiled grimly, picking up another flask. "Then let the battle begin…" he agreed.

-oo-

Alyce hung up her cloak quietly, hovering in the background not wishing to intrude on the reunion between mother, daughter and granddaughters. Dagna was not so restrained, cheerfully allowing herself to be pulled into the circle of happiness by Myfanwy and introduced to her older sister and grandmother like a favourite new doll. Watching the dwarf, it occurred to Alyce that Dagna must miss having an ordinary family. As much of a sister Neria was to her, life at the Tower could not be the same; even if Dagna did appear to have an uncanny ability to slot herself into any place and any situation and simply _belong_; the Tremayne's little clique being no exception. Right now Dagna seemed content to be just another daughter…

The women folk shifted their bubble of female chatter into the next room. Alyce craned her neck, watching them leave but making no move to follow. She could see the rounded shape of a stove beyond, next to a large square stone basin. There was also an ancient wooden table with legs that would not have looked too out of place on a draught horse. With the noise transferred elsewhere, Alyce exhaled slowly, looking around the inside of the narrow cottage that was barely bigger than the one currently being occupied by her aunt and Serenna.

The staircase was barely an adult's width across, Alyce musing that it was just as well the Tremaynes were of slender build. She would never risk sending a fully-armoured Templar up the worn stairs, just in case they collapsed under the combined weight of man, metal and holy righteousness. Clearly, it was strong enough to support Ser Ryan's weight, moving out of the way as he came down the stairs.

Wrapping arms about her middle, she shrank back against the front door so he could squeeze past. He paused in the center of the cramped sitting room, looking absurdly large and uncomfortable; the top of his head brushing the ceiling beams. He too made no move to join his mother and sister, though he did throw a brief, unreadable glance towards the kitchen.

Alyce watched him half out of the corner of her eye, thinking how awkward he looked; so out of place. It was…well, it was quite pathetic actually, Alyce thought with a roll of an eye that brought her gaze to gaze with the man himself. He'd been watching her with his usual absence of expression, though she fancied she could detect just a touch of wariness and…was he waiting for something?

Unnerved and feeling even more anxious than before, Alyce yanked her gaze away to take in the rest of the room; from the low, two-seater couch with the faded, patched upholstery to the footstool, currently being used as a table. There was a basket underneath with skeins of wool, needles and a half-finished doll patiently awaiting completion. A hand-woven rug lay across the scrubbed wooden floor. A single lamp hung in the far corner, but the walls were free of soot and dirt. Behind the couch was a wooden box of carved and painted wooden blocks and figures; vintage toys passed down from generation to generation, loved in perpetuity. It was a room where people _lived _and loved and were family.

It must have been nice…growing up in such warm surroundings. It was no wonder, Alyce sighed to herself, that Ser Ryan was so – relatively speaking – well adjusted.

Alyce touched the back of the sofa tentatively; afraid she might mark the thin fabric with her travel-worn hands. She snatched them back when Ser Ryan shifted his position with an impatient grunt. Tired of the silence between them and the feeling of being _judged, _Alyce rounded on him, her mage staff rolling off her shoulder with a loud clatter to the floor.

"Have I grown an extra head unexpectedly?" she demanded, waving her fist at him. "Didn't your mother teach you it was rude to stare?"

His response was a single, raised eyebrow. She wanted to punch him. Or do that face sucky thing…_No! Not the face-sucking…dammit! _She picked up her staff and poked him in the shoulder with it. _Better get this over with…_"Outside, Ryan! Now!"

With that, she threw open the front door and stepped outside. After a short space of time it opened again and the top of her head appeared, bowed to hide her face.

"Um…" she added in a quieter voice. "Please?"

As he approached, she backed away, almost tripping on the door step. Spotting a swing hanging from a tree she made a beeline for it, feeling as large as a hippopotamus while trying to squeeze her adult-sized bottom onto the seat. She even cast a wary look up at the branch; checking to make sure it was sturdy enough to hold her weight. While she bounced up and down experimentally, testing the strength of the rope, she found her cloak being tossed over her head.

"You'll catch cold out here…" Ser Ryan told her crisply.

Yanking her cloak off her head, she draped it around her shoulders, re-seating herself. She noticed _he _was still in the stupidly thin tunic thing with the ties undone exposing _bits _of him she would rather not see. Brushing leaves from a conveniently placed stump, he made his own seat, leaning forward with his hands dangling casually between his knees.

"You said you wished to talk to me," he stated.

"Gentlemen and Templars first," Alyce suggested, trying to order her thoughts and not having too much success.

There went his eyebrow again, shooting skywards. "There's a difference?" he enquired.

Alyce said the first thing that came into her head. "One of you wears funny pants."

He stared at her. "Templars don't wear pants," he told her dryly.

"No?" She tried processing this bit of information. The conclusion was not a happy one. "Templars don't wear pants?" she asked hollowly, the image of pantless Templars squeezing her brain inside out. Ser Anwyn…pantless…Ser Hanleigh…pantless…_Holy Maker, creator of all things I want to unsee…_Greagoir…_pantless…_

Observing the twist of emotions across her face, he told her: "You're thinking weird thoughts again, aren't you?"

Unexpectedly, he picked up a small pebble and lobbed it at her. She knocked it out of the air with a tiny comet, eliciting a surprised grin at her quickness. "Impressive."

"Huh?" she asked. "The firepebble or the weird thoughts?" She stopped swinging, boot heels dragging across the dead grass. "Not that I was thinking anything _weird_…you know, or _considering_ weirdness because I'm normal, perfectly and don't…think thing, what that anyway because you…I'm sorry, what was the question again?"

"You were going to talk to me…or at me," he reminded her helpfully.

"Oh…no. No. I don't think so. I'm pretty sure you were going to go first," she said solicitously.

"Pantless?" he asked, with a very un-Templar-like glint in his eye.

Alyce stared, wondering whether there might be steam shooting from her ears. It was completely unfair to throw an image of himself pantless at her and now she had this sudden urge to drag the cloak from her shoulders and wrap it around her neck. Very tightly.

He pointed an accusing finger at her. "Weird thoughts?"

"I…I am not!" she protested…Maker, it was unseasonably warm this afternoon…she was beginning to _sweat _under this heavy material…"Much…" She added quickly. "Anyway, it was more of a question, rather than a talk…or chat, discussion, lecture, speech, conversation…thing."

"So…" he prompted her. "Start. In whatever form you choose. I am listening."

_Urgh…bastard…_Alyce glared at him, balancing her staff across her knees and rolling it back and forward nervously. "You really don't want to go first?" she asked hopefully. He shook his head. "Right. Well…it kind of involves…" Her gaze slid sideways, back to the house. "Your mother and…I was going to ask _her_, but I suppose I should check with you first…Seeing as it involves you too and you're the primary…" She paused, clearing her throat. Her right knee began to jiggle – the anxious one – and she chewed on her bottom lip.

She took a deep breath. "Alright…" she began again. "Here's the thing…I need, um…I need…you…t-t…" _Urgh! Where to start! _Her left knee began to jiggle too, in sympathy with the first.

"You need _me_?" Ser Ryan repeated.

Alyce stopped staring at the house, her eyes flying to his. "What!" she exclaimed. "No! No, no, no, no, no, no…! That would be…and…completely…_no…_" _Yes…? Damn him…_"The…the thing is…"

Leaping to her feet, she began to pace. Ser Ryan frowned, feeling the familiar fizz of magical energy begin to build in the air around her. Preparing to drain her mana, she surprised him by siphoning off her own magic layer by layer and sending it into the Fade…

"Alyce…" he began, worried. He'd never heard of mages doing _that _before…The other way around usually, but never to _store _mana_…_

"Would you and your family consider moving into Amell House with my Aunt Mildred?" she said in a rush, leaning on her staff after she'd finished, in an attempt to try and catch her breath.

"What?" he asked, completely thrown by the question when it was finally delivered.

"I…I _hate _it that my aunt is living in that awful place," she told him unhappily. "I know she has Serenna with her, but it's not…And I've seen what your mother and Morwenna have done here..."

"Alyce," Ser Ryan stood, frowning, "I know it's not much, but still…"

"They could make Amell House beautiful again, into a _home _just like _your _home…" Alyce continued.

"Oh," Ser Ryan said, sounding somewhat deflated. "A…home?"

Alyce looked over at him, puzzled by the tone of voice. "Well, sure. What did you think I meant?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing," he said hastily, kicking himself mentally for even considering she might think his rickety old house beneath her. Then he realised those had been _his _thoughts, and his guilt increased. Exponentially.

"I know it'll be a lot of work," Alyce continued her pacing, "but I thought if your family were willing…It would be a _such _a relief knowing Aunt Mildred could be surrounded by family again when I go back to the Tower. It's just…I don't want her to be alone like that. Do you think it's possible?" She stopped pacing briefly to throw him an earnest look that added another notch to his level of guilt.

"I don't want to inconvenience your family…or you. I know your mother has an awful lot on her hands right now and moving your father might be confusing for him, but I figured he was able to live briefly last year at the Cousland's summer home, so maybe Amell House might seem familiar to him. There's room on the lower floor, so he wouldn't have use the stairs so it'll be safe and…"

"_Alyce_…" Ryan stood, taking hold of her shoulders to try and make her stop pacing. He shook his head at her. "You should be asking my mother this, not me."

She stared at him. "You're…well the way these things go, I thought…figured you're head of the family, right?"

Arms falling to his sides, Ser Ryan took a step backwards. Speaking quietly, he told her, "My mother doesn't speak to me. She still blames me for Geraint's death."

Alyce didn't like the look in his eyes. She didn't like the idea of anyone taking the martyr option. Not Neria, not Niall and definitely not him.

"If she should blame anyone," she told him firmly, "she should blame _me._" Of course, she would make an exception for _herself…_

"I was _responsible_ for my brother," he argued fiercely.

"He was responsible for _himself,_" Alyce argued right back.

Folding his arms across his chest, Ser Ryan gave her the Templar-look again. "Don't make me Holy Smite you, Alyce," he warned her sternly.

"Peh," she waved her hand dismissively in the air…Her eyes grew wide again. "Oh…you can do that again?" He nodded tersely. She gave a happy jump. "That's wonderful!" she exclaimed, then: "Wait, no it's not…_Huh_." Tapping a forefinger on her chin, she made a self-deprecating grimace. "Never thought I'd ever say _that_ about a Templar…"

The look on his face caused her to wave her hand at him again. "Oh go on, Holy Smite me anyway. For nostalgia's sake. You know you want to…"

She felt a sudden tightness in her chest and danced away, holding up her staff protectively in front of her. "Okay, um okay…no, you really don't have to. Just kidding, really!"

The tightness eased. Hand across her chest, she gave a comforting pat to her heart beneath. It still made the odd, uncomfortable, out-of-tempo jump.

"You are just not nice…" she complained.

"You asked," Ser Ryan pointed out reasonably. "I delivered. For _nostalgia's _sake."

She made a face at him. Finding the seat of the swing, she pushed it as far as it would go, bracing the angle with outstretched legs. "So…I'll speak to your mother," she promised. "Hopefully she'll…" She looked up at him from under the unruly escapees of hair that fell across her forehead. "Do you think she'll agree to my proposition?" she asked. He shrugged. "Right," she murmured, "I guess I'll know when I talk to her..."

"And what about your aunt?" Ser Ryan asked.

"I've already asked her," Alyce told him with a small smile. "It's her house after all. She said she would remain amenable to the idea as long as your mother agrees…"

"I see."

"And…" Alyce waited until he'd re-taken his perch on the stump before continuing. This conversation was more exhausting that she thought it would be. She felt as though she'd been running up and down the hills of Redcliffe, not having a simple discussion about living arrangements. "What were you going to say to me?"

Ser Ryan reached back and pulled the leather tie holding his ponytail together, running his hand through his hair uncomfortably. Alyce gawped at this uncharacteristic gesture; fascinated by the way his silver-streaked dark hair fell across his shoulders, framing his face. It had an odd effect; both softening the angles of his face yet giving a rather wild look to him. She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering whether he was sneakily Holy Smiting her again. She wouldn't put it past him…it would explain the sudden breathlessness…_and why is it so darned warm? Isn't it supposed to be winter still? _

When he stood up suddenly, she baulked in surprise, clutching awkwardly at the ropes or fall backwards off the swing.

"Can we walk for a bit?" he asked.

She nodded, waiting for him to walk ahead before following, studiously keeping her eyes fixed to the back of his head. When he stopped suddenly she almost collided into the back of him.

"I've been working on this patch for a while now," he told her, indicating the greyish, raked bit of dirt at the back of the house. It was a garden bed, though on a much smaller scale than at her aunt's. Unlike her aunt's empty plots however, there were skeletons of plants; dried runners curled and twisted along stiff twine. He'd made what she supposed was a…a _scarecrow _though there was little enough material in the structure to call it that.

He gave a small laugh. "The birds love it," he told her. "And I suspect something's been eating my bulbs. I don't know what it is about your aunt's garden," he added. "But pests and wild things stay away…"

"Magic perhaps?" Alyce suggested, half-joking.

"Not magic, no," he smiled. "There's no magic in your aunt whatsoever." He paused. Hooking thumbs into his pockets he cast his gaze groundwards. "Her servant however…"

"You aren't going to report her are you?" Alyce asked anxiously.

"Maker, no," he assured her hastily. "Out here…" he waved his hand towards the dried garden beds. "I'm just an ordinary soldier and I would not deprive your aunt of her companion…Which brings me to the…issue I wanted to speak about."

Continuing to survey the ground at his feet, Ser Ryan frowned. Alyce had never seen him so…jumpy before. She was used to him being unflappable and steady, like a mountain being battered by a storm. This Ser Ryan was just not…_right_. She almost wished he was a Templar again, so he could return to the old familiar serene Ser Ryan she was comfortable with. A mountain she could handle. An impending storm, she could not.

"I've been recalled to the Order," he said suddenly, as though extracting the thoughts from her head. "I had agreed with Knight Commander Greagoir…to be tested six months after my return to Highever. If my injury continued to interfere with core Templar duties, then I would be allowed to stay here, awaiting a further re-test a further six months hence. However, if I didn't fail the test then…well…" He finally lifted his head, his gaze travelling to the upper storey of the house.

"Templars never leave the Order," he said quietly. "Even my father is still considered part of it. He was a contemporary of the Knight Commander's," he informed her, his voice taking on a light, conversational tone, though there was a set to his jaw that had Alyce reaching for his hand impulsively.

"They served together, practically brothers…I suppose he's given me far more leeway than most of his men…If Bryant were alive, he would be the more appropriate candidate. As it is…" He sighed. "Greagoir prefers not to have someone from outside Ferelden and I've been informed some of the more senior candidates have some _issues_. Ser Anwyn himself turned down the post of Lothering and Amaranthine citing his age."

Curling his fingers around hers, he turned to her with a somewhat twisted smile. "Greagoir has stated a preference for someone with longevity."

"And ability," Alyce pointed out. "You were a good Templar, Ryan. You still are."

"I'm a…" He ran his free hand through his hair again. "I don't know what I am…"

"You keep doing that, you're going to lose all that lovely hair of yours, uhhh…" Alyce felt her face turn several shades of red. "That wasn't a compliment by the way," she corrected. "I mean you probably would look _terrible _bald. Ser Hanleigh now…_great _head for no hair. You? You'd probably look like a plucked duck…which is not to say you wouldn't look _really _bad. Or that I have anything against baldies, but you know, you have to have the right shape of…"

"Alyce…"

"Yes?"

"Shutup."

"Yes Ser."

Giving her hand a final, friendly pat, he let go, walking to the end of the garden, which was not particularly far. Like the house itself, there was not a great deal of space to grow things in, or to play and there was a laundry line that hung over the planter beds…In two paces he stood under the gnarled branches of a winter-naked tree, resting his back against it thoughtfully, one foot propped up onto the trunk.

"So what are you going to do?" she asked. The offer of Knight Commander of Ferelden was nothing to sneeze at, in case he caught cold…It was the highest honour – and the highest rank a Templar could achieve. He'd be silly not to at least give the matter his most serious consideration…and then jump into the role with both feet.

"Will you return?" she prompted. "Be Greagoir's replacement?"

"It all depends," he stated, staring unseeing at his empty, dead garden.

"Depends on what?" she asked.

He looked up at her. "On you," he told her.

-oo-

_Not here…_"Blast it, where could they have gone?" Aidan glared at the Amell House façade, unwilling to go any further in case he met that Amell…woman. He was fine as long as he was in Alyce's company, but on his own, with this bald, walking sword of a Templar, he feared for his life and future enjoyment of fruit and vegetables.

"They should have been here…" he repeated, tossing up the idea of sending the Templar into battle for him.

Ser Hanleigh, on the other hand, was enjoying himself immensely. The brisk walk from the castle to this rather fancy estate house had been energising, not to mention it took him far away from Sister Melody. He was a pious man, who came from a family of faithful and strict Andrastians. All of his sisters were _Sisters_ and he loved them all dearly, but that Sister Melody was nothing like any of _his _sisters. It was due to the influence of his sisters that he became a Templar, because he'd grown up surrounded by such kind, sweet, gentle and understanding women that he'd wanted to be just like them…only with trousers. Brother Almond at the Chantry however, thought that his six foot six inch frame would serve the Maker far more efficiently as a Templar and not as a Brother of the Cloth, so a Templar he became – and Colly was so proud she had knitted him a bobble jumper that Flora embroidered with the Sword of Andraste. He wore it every time he went home for Summer Day, along with his Flame of Andraste socks that Augie picked up for him in _Val Royeaux_.

Thinking of his family back home in Denerim, Ser Hanleigh gave a deep and heavy sigh. Cook's plum pudding was rather nice, but not as nice as his Mum's…and no one made eggnog like Gertie…His sighs brought him to the attention of Aidan Cousland, who transferred his anxious glare to him.

"This isn't a chore, man!" Aidan told him sternly. "We have to find Ser Ryan and Alyce…"

"Oh, I'm having a wonderful time, your lordlishiplinessness," Hanleigh assured him. "It's just that I was thinking about my family…back home in Denerim. The girls will be gathering about now for Satinalia…"

"Girls?" Aidan asked; distracted by the subject, even if he had to keep his wits about him.

"Aye, your lordnesship. My sisters."

Foolish as the thought was, Aidan could not help but picture lots of pillar-like Ser Hanleighs with skirts. It was terrifying.

"Fine," he murmured with a shudder.

"Aye," Ser Hanleigh began to count on his fingers. "Sister Augusta, Sister Barbara, Sister Colleen, Sister Dorothy, Sister Enid, Sister Flora, Sister Gertrude, Sister Iris, Sister Janice and Sister Kelp."

Aidan reeled from the recitation of names, his shaky state of mind heightened by a flash of movement just out the corner of his eye. _That Amell fruit-pitching witch…_he wondered? "Wh-H-Yo…" And then he realised the Templar had counted all of his fingers. "Ten?" he exclaimed. "You have _ten_ sisters?"

"All _Sisters_!" Ser Hanleigh stated, chest puffing with pride.

"Your sisters are…Sisters…" Aidan echoed faintly. "That's…novel…"

"Aye your lordliness, they are rather bookish being Sisters, that's true."

"No I meant…Never mind." There it was again. Another hint of movement, dashing just out of sight whenever he turned. _Damn it! This could be an ambush! We're sitting ducks out here!_ "And there are…_ten _of them…?" he asked again, still distracted.

"Oh, aye…Augie and Babs and Colly and Dot and…"

"Yes, yes man, I heard you the first time!" Aidan shook his head irritably. _There it is again!_ "Wait…" His brain supplied more unnecessary information. The cold was addling his brain, clearly. "That's letters A to L…but one's missing…Shouldn't there be someone starting with an 'H'?" he asked.

"For shame, your lordshipnessliness!" Ser Hanleigh clapped him across the shoulder, sending him spinning. "Who do you think starts with an aitch?"

Rubbing his stinging shoulder, Aidan said resentfully, "Your mother?"

Ser Hanleigh chortled good-naturedly. Waggling an amused finger in front of Aidan's face, the Templar said, "Oh that's a clever one, your lorryship! I see nothing gets past you!" As Ser Hanleigh continued to laugh, Aidan caught wind of a soft, but fast approaching whistling noise, before something large, hard and juicy smacked him square in the back of his head.

"Ouch!" he yelled, spinning. "Who the…?"

"And you can stay away from my Orangery as well, you sneaky produce thief!" a familiar and terrifying voice screeched at him. He caught sight of a tall, stick-carrying figure before another piece of fruit struck him in the middle of the forehead, sending him stumbling backwards.

"Ooh!" Ser Hanleigh had picked up the first missile. "Tangerines! I love tangerines! Make lovely jam, they do."

"Urgh! Just…! Dammit!" Aidan stumbled again as another bit of citrus collided with the side of his head. This one exploded on contact, squirting acidic liquid into his eyes. "Bloody Fade… …!" Blinking the juice out of his eyes, another bit of fruit brushed his other ear. Ser Hanleigh caught it, stuffing it down inside his chest plate.

"Waste not, want not, as they say!" the Templar chortled. Aidan did not stay to comment. Urging his feet to disentangle, he simply _ran…_

-oo-


	49. Complicated

-oo-

**Chapter 49 – Complicated**

She saw…red…crimson, claret, scarlet, garnet, vermillion, russet, _bloody…_! "_What!"_ The word was ejected through Alyce's lips with such force, they _bounced _off Ser Ryan's tree. The ex-Templar startled, no longer leaning casually against the trunk like an iguana, staring hopefully at a passing fly. He had not expected her to be angry. Surprised, shocked perhaps…confused? Definitely…and if he was _really _lucky…happy…But angry? Perhaps he should rethink his approach…especially if the blue fury in those eyes were anything to go by.

Her mage staff had fallen to the ground as she stood there shaking at him. If she had still been holding it, it would have been snapped between her fingers, reinforced silverite or not. There was so much magic rolling off her that it made his head ache, stinging on every inch of his skin. If she were to turn Maleficar now, he thought worriedly, it would take an entire squad of freshly-dosed Templars to take her down…and all of that magic was directed at _him._

More than two decades of Templar training, drilled into every bone, every muscle screamed at him to take action. But this is _Amell…_he told himself, not just another mage gone rogue. She was angry…just angry…He could handle _just _angry…

He hoped_…_

Holding his hands palm out in a defensive gesture the small, ingrained Templar at the back of his brain also reminded him just how dangerous an emotional mage could be, especially if that mage lost control of those emotions. Attempting to back away brought him tight up against the trunk of the tree. If she did become something…_other _than Alyce, he was trapped.

"Now, Alyce…" he began in his most reasonable tone of voice, unable to help wincing as she advanced on him with white-glowing eyes.

Her hair whipped about her face in thrall of her own, personal tornado. Fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically at her sides, he could hear her teeth grind like millstones.

"You. Want. Me. To. Make. The. Decision. For. You," she stated in clipped, fury-laden words. "_What are you,_ _TWELVE YEARS OLD_?" she screamed at him so loudly, the bare branches above their heads shook, showering them both with snow. Where the lumps of ice fell on her, she steamed. "And don't even think of Holy Smiting me, Templar!" she added in warning.

_Holy Maker…_she was beautiful…and this is; he realised, a test.

Mustering every ounce of calm, he allowed his arms to fall by his sides, planting his feet firmly and squarely to face her full-on. He cleared his mind of all extraneous thought…the letter from Knight Commander Greagoir, his worry about his family, feelings that he would be letting down everyone from his widowed sister and grieving mother to the Couslands. Good people who deserved more than a half-hearted attention to duty and responsibility. People who had been kind to him. People who expected more of and from him…Shedding the layers of guilt and anxiety…and fear, he filled up the emptying spaces with only her; the pattern her hair made around her face, how the pink in her cheeks was exactly like that of the sky at precisely four in the afternoon…the smudge of dirt along the left side of her jaw; the way her nostrils flared. He counted the sparks in the eyes he loved so much; the _exact _curl of her eyelashes and the surprising darkness of her eyebrows, filling his lungs with the air that she breathed.

He could never tire of this woman, fighting the urge to seize her and kiss her senseless…That path, he told himself, would lead only to a head full of fireball…

"Alyce…?" he murmured quietly.

The aura of restless, buzzing mana around her disappeared abruptly; leaving nothing behind but the briefest sensation of increased pressure in the air, as though a door had been closed on them in an airtight vault. Her shoulders slumped and she stared - eyebrows still puckered angrily – somewhere between the collar of his tunic and the underside of his chin.

"Why are you asking _me?_" she muttered in an accusing, unhappy voice. "Why should what you do depend on _me_?" she asked

"Because of all those that I know Alyce," he said in the same, quiet voice, "yours is one of the few opinions I can trust."

"A _mage_?" she said, the energy slowly draining from her voice as well.

"A _friend…_" he told her.

"A friend…" she echoed softly.

Ser Ryan sighed. "I would like to say that you were more than that," he confessed, "Much more…but I know it would complicate matters."

"Complicate…?" she stared at him in disbelief.

"Unless you _want_ a complicated life?" he enquired, the ghost of the imp peeking in briefly.

Alyce examined the bare branches of the tree above with a snort. How much worse could her life be with more complications? _Hm, let me see…_One of her friends had turned out to be a Blood Mage, another a Grey Warden conscript-turned-Hero-turned-noblewoman-turned-who knew what? Her first mentor had sacrificed himself to save an organisation he wanted desperately to hide from, her second thought everyone was a complete and utter idiot. She'd been harrowed, kidnapped, darkspawned and covered in the gooey remains of her colleagues. And _then _there were the rumours being spread about her at the Tower; along with her history-making stint as the Circle's first ever mentor to a _dwarf_…On top of all that, she was full to bursting with the dark and disturbing secrets she'd been sworn never to reveal about some kind of kinky witch thief ritual involving the bloody _King of Ferelden, _the weird, kinky witch thief and possibly a surprised sausage dog…the results of which could spell the end of the world as everyone knew it…or at least a critical shortage of cheddar cheese in the continent (no loss there…).

So, throw in the wonderfully inconvenient fact that she was in love with a man she could never be with and the sinking suspicion that she was coming down with some kind of horrible lurgy...More complications? _Bring it on! Let's make this a complete set…_!

Folding her arms she half-mirrored his stance, shifting instead to lean on the trunk beside him. "Have I ever told you how irritating you are?" she asked with an unappreciative curl of her upper lip.

"On several occasions," he confirmed. "But if you're expecting me to do the same, you will be doomed to disappointment, I'm afraid." He looked over at her, imprinting the shape of her profile into his memory. "I think you're perfect."

Alyce choked. Her cheeks turned scarlet, coughing and spluttering on his words. "Golly, you must really be smitten with me, if you think that," she said half-jokingly. "But as you say…" Her awkward bravado extended as far as allowing her to polish her nails on the front of her robes, holding them up for inspection. "I am perfect."

Reaching out, he captured her hand in his, holding it to his lips.

"What's this, hungry?" she blurted without thinking. It earned her a look with a half-smile that turned her skin several shades redder.

"You could say that…"

Tearing her gaze away, she took several long breaths. Her eyes narrowed. The number of shadows gathered at the open kitchen door was suspicious enough. The two tiny faces pressed up against the window pretty much confirmed what she thought. _Wunnerful…an audience…Dagna's probably taking notes, for all I know…_

"I can't tell you how to live your life," she told him quietly, but firmly. "I don't have the right. Quite apart from the entire mind-control mage thing, this is _your _life. Your career. Only you know how important this is to you."

"The twelve year old," he reminded her, the imp returning for another serve.

Alyce ignored him. "You're old enough to weigh all your options carefully and make your own decisions," she sniffed primly at him. "According to my erudite apprentice you're practically a _fossil_, and I'm so _not_. You've had years, decades, _scores _of millennia to gain adequate wisdom to make an appropriate decision." Another self-deprecating snort. "You start taking advice from me; you'll find yourself homeless in a muddy field somewhere with no pants on and a pig on your head…" Alyce pondered this image of Ser Ryan for a very long time. She rather liked it.

"At least I'll have company," he noted dryly.

"A _pink_ one," she clarified. "For when the rats are off duty."

"Obviously," he replied, pausing…_Rats…?_ "However," he began cautiously, "if you _were _to give your opinion. Hypothetically speaking."

"Hypothetically?"

"Just saying…" he shrugged.

"Well, if it's _just saying, _as you…er…say, then…" Nails gouging the flesh of her arms, Alyce gripped her elbows tightly. She looked up at him, eye to eye. "I…I think you would be mad to pass up the opportunity, Ser Ryan," she told him. "You've done so much for everyone here, worked so hard most of your life. You're a good man; a good brother, a good son and a good friend. You should do this for _yourself_."

"I was not given this life to be selfish, Alyce," he said, a brush of the dutiful colouring his words.

"Bronto bum," she shot him a dark look. "Stop being such a bloody martyr. Choosing to say here, for _yourself _will benefit others. Choosing to be Knight Commander of bloody Ferelden you will _definitely _be serving others. Not to mention…" Her eyes brightened slyly. "_Allowing _certain mages extra perks! Ooh…You know this whole idea of you being in charge is beginning to grow on me. I'll have you wrapped around both my little fingers…" As a demonstration she extended an arm, curling her middle finger at an invisible, second Ser Ryan. "Kneel before my mighty mage-ness, Templar! For I am _Mage…_superior being! Bow to my magical magey magicalness…!"

"Then allow me divest you of your thoughts on mage domination, Enchanter Amell," he said from under a crooked eyebrow. "If I were to take up the role of Knight Commander," he told her ruthlessly, "I would fast become the bane of your existence; indeed of all mages within the Circle. Greagoir in my opinion, has shown far too much lenience towards the Circle; too much _sympathy._" He began counting off his list on his fingers. "No longer will mages be permitted to travel unescorted from the Tower without guard…Only Tranquil will have the right to represent the Circle in public in any case. Mages will be required to observe regular chapel services, along with the Initiates and Avowed. And I will petition the Grand Cleric to force mages to be tested _every _year, instead of once in their lifetimes…While I'm at it…"

As Ser Ryan recited all his 'improvements' to the Circle of Magi, Alyce stared at him; her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. _He wouldn't…would he…? _Of course he wouldn't…her internal voice argued back. _Oh he might too, you know…Templars are sneaky that way…_No…there was no way…_Want to place a bet?_

"Oh, you…you bloody tyrant…" she gasped at him.

"Change your mind now?" he asked her coolly.

She stared at him, attempting to analyse what scant clues were to be found in the almost blank slate of his face. His Templar face. Would Ser Ryan risk provoking a rebellion in Ferelden by turning the thumb screws on its mages? By leashing them just like the Qunari did with their…What was the word? 'Sunny buds'? _Too happy for Qunari…_'Sear bras'? _Too Andrastian…_She gave her head a shake. _Ah…Sarebaas…_and…even _if_ Ser Ryan became her worse nightmare…it could never be worse than the nightmares she had of Flemeth or the fear she held for her best friend…

"No," she said softly, touching his arm. "Not if it's for _yourself…"_

-oo-

_Well…that went better than I thought…_

The talk with Asla Tremayne had been…relatively easy. As soon as Alyce mentioned that moving into Amell House would be a favour to her aunt and herself, Mrs Tremayne had agreed; supported wholeheartedly by Morwenna whose gaze had remained firmly on her two daughters playing in the cramped area under the stairs. Alyce knew what she had been thinking…_space…_to play, to grow and as Alyce knew what it was like growing up in a crowded stone block, she was glad there were at least two children in Ferelden who could throw a ball and not hit a Templar in his codpiece.

At the conclusion of her negotiations with the Tremaynes, Alyce had looked across the room to find Ser Ryan gone. It had been baffling. She had hoped to have him stay to hear her proposal. Perhaps, she thought, he had gone to prepare his reply to the Knight Commander…polish his Templar armour, or whatever it was that soon-to-be-Knight Commanders did in preparation for taking up the position. Disappointed, she and Dagna had taken their leave, returning by firelight to Castle Cousland.

Even more baffling, on their return they could not find either Senior Enchanter Torrin or the Templars anywhere in the castle…

Heading to her allotted room, Alyce began preparations of her own, hoping her mentor and the two Templars would return soon. Much as she would have liked to search, there would be little time to do so. Seeing as she had missed the welcome dinner on their arrival, she was determined to make an effort this evening, with or without Senior Torrin, though…

She eyed the large amount of richly coloured velvet heaped on the bed with trepidation. It was old she had been informed, by the maid that had delivered it; one of the Teyrna's dresses, lengthened to fit her substantially taller frame by the addition of some matching material, the tacked-on skirt tastefully ruffled but not so much that she would look like she had been the victim of an exploding lace circle. She touched the fabric; a soft silver grey with panels of sky blue that shimmered in the lamplight. Should she wear it over her armoured robes? With or without under garments? Surely ladies wore _something _under their dresses…

_A lady…_Well, that would be a new experience for her. She counted the buttons. There were an awful lot of buttons…six on the cuffs per sleeve, twelve on the front…_no, wait that's just for decoration…_There were more on the back; so many she lost count a third of the way down. Would she have time to button all these up? Would people be starving in the meantime waiting for her to do so? She held the dress up, grimacing when something fell off it. It was another piece of material; frost white and so sheer it was practically invisible. _What the…?_ The sleeves came off…where they supposed to come off? It wasn't so much a dress as a jigsaw puzzle…

When there was a knock on the door, Alyce leapt onto the bed, pulling the curtains closed. "Yeah?" she called out.

The door opened, admitting the same maidservant who had delivered the dress. "The Teyrna thought you might like some assistance preparing for dinner," she stated with a curtsey.

"Yeah…?" Alyce replied, clutching the bed curtains more tightly. "I'm not really dressed yet," she said feeling awkward. Why, she did not know. It wasn't as if there had been any _privacy _at the Tower. She shouldn't feel so ridiculously shy.

The maidservant merely smiled and Alyce emerged somewhat reluctantly, clutching the largest piece of the dress across her front.

"My…you are a tall one…" the maid cocked her head to the side, critically surveying the wet lumpen mess of hair on Alyce's head. "But I have an idea to minimise that…"

_Minimise?_ Alyce began backing away, thrusting the dress in front of her like a shield. Did the maid have to make it sound like limb-removal was being considered? Her bottom collided with the bedside table, rattling the lamp just as Dagna peeked her head around the half-open door. She giggled at Alyce's expression.

"You aren't dressed yet?" She bounced into the room. "Come on Alyce," she urged, "I'm hungry!"

Giving up any ideas of flight or sudden illness that might prevent her from going to dinner after all, Alyce stood as still as a dressmaker's dummy, while the maid buzzed around her, attaching pieces of material to parts of her body. The sheer material was some kind of underslip, the bodice sat on top. Alyce in turns gawped in amazement at the maid's blurring fingers, lacing the sleeves onto the bodice and buttoning buttons so fast that she felt dizzy…while darting awestruck glances at her apprentice.

The rather…formal appearance of Dagna put Alyce slightly on edge, truly hoping the Senior Enchanter would arrive in time. His worldly presence would have been handy to hide behind and without him she might actually be expected to be…_social_.

Under her gaze, Dagna helpfully spun; her skirts billowing outwards revealed an underskirt of a soft yellow that refused to clash with the dress. The emerald green silk set Dagna's red hair aflame, giving her a rather exotic look, despite redheads being quite common in Ferelden. Unlike the shin-length robes of unflattering orange and beige she had been wearing up to this point, Dagna's current garb was long; brushing the tops of a pair of matching, dainty silk slippers that looked like it had been pilfered from a grateful girl-child. Her hair had been braided with silk flowers to resemble a crown on her head, making her look less…dwarfish and more…wow-ish.

Overcome suddenly by emotion, Alyce beckoned Dagna closer. Reaching forward she pinched her apprentice's cheeks hard. "Ooh! You're so adorable, I could put you in my pocket and carry you around all day!" she squealed. "You cute liddle itty bitty widdy dolly wolly you!"

Dagna did her best to roll her eyes in exasperation. Angling herself, she stuck her hip out pointedly. "'ook…" she managed…only just, seeing as her mentor still had possession of most of her face. "'ar ill agg mer kshh."

Alyce looked down. Hanging from an ornate, embossed leather strap, was Dagna's hand axe, the handle polished and oiled to a high shine, the edge honed to even more lethal sharpness. Looking from the hand axe to Dagna's flashing blue eyes, Alyce added. "Oosa cute liddle dorfie worfie den?" she cooed. "You are! Oh yes you are…! Ow!"

She hadn't been impaled on Dagna's hand axe as the pitch and suddenness of her exclamation had implied. The maidservant; standing on a chair was attacking the snarls on Alyce's head with a brush. She realised that with little effort on her part she was now fully dressed and for the first time today, her knees weren't vibrating with cold…It was amazing…

"Miss has…interesting hair…" the maidservant commented through gritted teeth.

"I think you'd have more luck brushing a bramble hedge," Dagna told the woman, while Alyce's eyes began to water.

"Ow…" Alyce whined pathetically.

"No sympathy," Dagna sang, twirling the axe from hand to hand.

Alyce had been about to respond when the door slammed open, startling them all. Standing half-crouched in the doorway stood Aidan Cousland, his normally neat head of hair windblown and ruffled and his tunic splattered liberally with mud, leaves and bits of wildlife. He had been about to speak himself, but stood staring open-mouthed at the three women inside.

"My lord!" the maidservant exclaimed indignantly. "We're in the middle of...women's business!"

Aidan blinked. Alyce crossed her arms. She sniffed.

"You smell…" What was it about that scent? Some kind of cross between citrus and a cow barn…?

Eventually, Cousland managed to squeeze a few words out; "You're…here."

Alyce nodded. "Yup," she confirmed with a nod.

"And you're…" Aidan felt _filthy_, but there was no way he was ever going to admit that he'd been set upon by a fruit-wielding _blind _woman, tripped and fallen into a cesspit, gotten _lost _in his own Teyrnir, mauled by an angry badger and manhandled by a Templar who had _carried _him back home thrown over a very sharp, very hard and somewhat emasculating pauldron like a sack of potatoes. Not to Fergus who would tease him mercilessly until the two of them were old men, not to his mother who would tut-tut disapprovingly and then make him return to the fruit-wielding old bat to _apologise _and certainly, _never _to this…vision…of…of…_Maker's breath…_

Ignoring the fact that he was not fit to be seen at a Nightsoil Carter's convention, Aidan Cousland advanced into the room. Dropping down onto one knee, he gazed up at Alyce with adoring azure eyes.

"I love you," he told her earnestly, thinking that if his lieutenant could not make up his mind and claim Alyce Amell for his own, then he would make it up for him…and damn the consequences…Ser Ryan could go back to his bloody Tower and be Knight blasted Commander for all he cared...

"Marry me Alyce," Aidan Cousland pleaded. "Make me the happiest man in Ferelden by consenting to be my wife…"

-oo-

The explosion shook the entire floor. The Knight Commander felt the stone vibrate beneath his feet and he was running for the Apprentice's Laboratory before the Templars on duty at that level could raise the alarm. He emerged from the stairwell to a cloud of greasy black smoke and apprentices milling in the corridor in confusion. Pushing past them, Greagoir made for the laboratory, masking his nose and mouth with his hand.

He plucked a stumbling apprentice out of the smoke. "What in Andraste's name is going on here?" he demanded and then another, familiar figure fell through the door. Greagoir's eyes turned flinty. Hurling the apprentice to the side, he seized the man by the collar.

"_Ser Bran…"_ the Knight Commander seethed. "I might have known…" His angry gaze took in his Templar's appearance…_off-duty…_and clearly, he thought in deep disappointment, _separation _had not been the solution to the Templar's…mischief-making. Dragging the Templar up to eye-level, he gave Ser Bran a shake. "Are you hurt, Ser Bran?" he said in a deceptively quiet voice. "Will you need to attend the Infirmary?"

Ser Bran's eyes bugged from his sockets. "Uh…No? Knight Commander…?"

"Good," Greagoir spat in the man's face. "Because by the time I've finished with you, you _will…_" Releasing the Templar, Greagoir stepped back. "My office," he barked. "Now."

Ser Bran did not wait to be told a second time. Scrambling to his feet, he headed hastily for the stairwell. Greagoir watched the Templar dispassionately, turning back to the smoke-crowded room with a critical, chilly eye. Eventually another figure emerged, ash-smudged and bowed in a fit of coughing. Greagoir sighed.

"Enchanter Merimas?" Greagoir did not look at the mage, but into the room beyond the Enchanter's shoulder. "Would _you _care to explain?"

The mage coloured in embarrassment. "Not particularly," he replied in a slightly accented voice.

"And your assessment?" Greagoir asked, bushy steel eyebrows beetling across his lined forehead.

"As you Fereldens like to say we are up a sheep's crack with no paddle, Knight Commander," the mage recovered enough to respond sourly. "The entire rig is destroyed. _Months _of work…!" Building up steam of his own, Enchanter Merimas threw his hands up into the air. "Your men are idiots!"

Not bothering to correct the Enchanter, Greagoir's chest puffed in indignation. "And you _allowed _these idiots to handle expensive, precision equipment, Enchanter Merimas?" he said with a curl of his upper lip.

"You have a point…" Massaging the back of his neck, the Enchanter too, looked into the room. He shook his head at the pile of destruction. The blast had been strong enough to expel the windows from their panes and these were no thin sheets of melted sand to be found on noblemen's houses, but reinforced plates; infused with metal alloys and enchanted to withstand the worst a careless apprentice could hurl at it.

"Just get this mess cleaned up." Waving a dismissive hand at the mage, the Knight Commander turned away, eager to move on and leave the sight of so much wasted resources behind him. _Our hopes it seems, now lie on the visitors to the north…_

-oo-


	50. Gift

A/N: Sorry this chapter has taken so long to get to you folks. It took a while to wake my brain up to write this one…

This chapter is also dedicated to _PatMum_…A little colour went out of the world when you left it. Wherever your spirit may be, I know you're making merry hell and spreading your own brand of cheekiness, laughter and warmth beyond the Fade…

The world in this story however, still belongs to Bioware.

-oo-

**Chapter 50 – Gift**

"_I think you should stand up my lord…"_

She'd never called him that before.

Freshly scrubbed and mostly deodorised, Aidan Cousland had decided during dinner that he didn't really know what she had meant by that…or perhaps he did, but did not want to admit it…Either way, remaining in this corner behind a tall pot plant might be a good idea for a while. Not only could he sneakily continue to admire Alyce Amell, but he was mostly out of view of both his parents. News had travelled unsurprisingly fast through the under-chambers and servants' passages of the castle and Aidan had fancied that the dark look his father had sent him at dinner had been because of _that_ _proposal_. Of course, his father could have something completely different occupying his mind. The Teyrn was an important man and very busy. It would not have been surprising.

On the other hand…

_My lord…_She might as well have stuffed two ice cubes into his ears he thought, staring sourly at the back of the plant. How could he have messed things up? Of course he _could_ have waited for a more opportune time…singled her out to a quiet but picturesque part of the castle's grounds, arranged a minstrel to play discreetly in the background…There should have been flowers and alcohol…_lots _of alcohol...even a bit of nature. There was plenty of that around Highever. Sunsets, sheep dotted hillsides and other horrendously romantic things like that.

'_My lord…_'? That was just…_Cousland…_she usually called him. _Hey you…Idiot…_Never_ 'my lord'…_Though really, would a flock of sheep setting rustically on a hillside have made a difference?

Maker, she was beautiful tonight…

_I should probably blame my mother…_He could see the Teyrna's hand in Alyce's appearance this evening. Seeing her in _that _dress had been the prompt to…Of course the honest part of him told him none too gently that Alyce's appearance alone was not the sole reason he had acted so…quickly? Spontaneously?

Rashly?

His father was going to kill him, he knew that much. Not now, obviously. They had guests at the castle and ghastly death screams emerging from his father's study along with the rivers of blood flowing down the corridors would not be particularly festive…or it might be, depending on how much pleasure his parent was expected to derive from the exercise and how much group participation was expected.

When Aidan sighed, his breath ruffled the leaves obscuring most of his face. He contemplated the contents of his goblet; dismissing the idea of becoming completely soaked on mere eggnog. He needed to be in full control of his faculties if he was going to face his father later.

_I really have messed this one up…_

"So…little brother…" An elbow jabbed into Aidan's side, causing eggnog to splash over his hand. Flicking the sticky warm liquid over the plant, Aidan turned a sour look onto his older sibling. Fergus was unperturbed, grinning the grin of one who was shortly to become the sole beneficiary of his parents' entire estate.

"I hear you've been busy…" Fergus continued cheerfully.

Directing his glare onto the innocent shrubbery in front of them, Aidan refused to play. "Busy?" he snorted. "I'm always busy. Industrious me, that's who I am."

"Oh?" Fergus' sly smile widened. "Keeping fit are we? You'll need to be in top form if you intend to dance circles around father later."

"I do not...I am so not going to dance at all," Aidan sniffed in protest. Lifting his chin, he added airily. "Of course, to amuse our honoured guests, I suppose I'll have to…"

"Give up, Pup. I know every one of your Wicked Grace faces and _that _one is your worst." Tapping his goblet against his brother's face, he added. "Your nose twitches, in case you want to kn…"

Aidan watched his brother carefully, curious as to what had arrested Fergus' attention so abruptly. He traced Fergus' fishy stare through the leaves of the plant to the very pretty brunette that had just come into view. _Hm…_

"Mrs Jones is looking particularly..." For some reason he struggled to find an appropriate word to describe Ser Ryan's twin sister. "…_brown…_tonight…" _Andraste's spit roast, what is wrong with me today?_

Luckily, Fergus did not seem to notice, sighing bubbles into his eggnog. "She is, isn't she?" he said, eyeing Morwenna Jones appreciatively. Sensing his brother's scrutiny at last, Fergus hastily redirected his gaze elsewhere, but Aidan was not fooled by such a weak attempt at nonchalance. Under Fergus' carefully cultivated stubble, he was blushing. _Fergus…blushing _like a thirteen year old and not a widowed man in his thirties. Aidan was moved to roll his eyes. One would think his older brother had only discovered _girls _for the first time ever recently…

Mumbling indistinctly about 'community spirit' and 'appreciation of the contribution Mrs Jones had made to the citizens of Highever', Fergus attempted to move on to other, less personal subjects, but in that he underestimated his younger brother. Under the circumstances, Aidan was quite happy to find a way for his father's axe to fall on his older brother's neck if it was going to save his own.

"Oh, I _see_…" Aidan shifted slightly sideways, the better to see his brother's reaction. "Her _contribution…_"

Fergus did not disappoint. Puffing like an annoyed duck, he turned an annoyed glare on his younger brother. "Only _you_ could make a word like that sound positively pornographic, Aidan," he growled.

"Happy to be of service." Aidan raised his goblet in salute, though he felt immediately sorry for his brother.

"So…anyway, what brings you to this side of the room?" he asked conversationally. "I'm sure mother's hired someone to inspect the plants in this castle. I don't think you need to take a personal hand in maintaining our indoor greenery."

"Ah…Father has arranged a meeting between myself and the granddaughter of one of his Rivaini associates," Fergus informed him quietly. "Were you aware?"

Aidan frowned. "Aren't you a bit old now for Daddy to choose your brides?" he asked.

Fergus' sighs were becoming progressively longer, deeper and more despondent. "I don't know whether you've noticed lately," he barely mumbled, "but Father's been using the 'M' word more frequently these days."

"Marmalade?" Aidan suggested.

"No," Fergus rolled his eyes heavenward. "_Mortality_," he corrected. "He keeps reminding me how the years are advancing…"

"What? Don't tell me you're getting _The Noble Line of Cousland Must Endure_ speech?" Aidan asked, snorting over his eggnog. _Why am I drinking this anyway? It really is quite dreadful.._.

"You have _no_ idea…"

"You know," Aidan murmured, enjoying the view now that Alyce had turned her back on the both of them. "I'm _so_ glad I'm a good-for-nothing, wastrel younger son. I get the other speech."

"The one about how you're wasting the best years of your life, thus bringing dishonour onto the good name of Cousland?" Fergus asked, distracted again. Aidan gave a half-nod.

"Uh-huh," Fergus confirmed. "I got that one until you turned fourteen. Then father just concentrated on the 'endure' for me, reserving the 'wasting' one for you."

Aidan shook his head. "What are these; passed down from father to son? Cousland to Cousland?"

"Oh yes. I took notes. All ready to go," Fergus confessed without humour or rancour, causing his younger brother to screw up his face at the cool delivery of the statement. He was starting to feel sorry for any potential nephews and nieces, his gaze straying involuntarily towards Alyce again.

"If you want my opinion…" Fergus began.

"No. I don't," Aidan frowned.

Fergus sighed. "Well Pup. It was nice knowing you, in that case. You know father won't spoil the evening for mother by confronting you now. He'll simply bide his time until after midnight…the _witching _hour…And then he'll kill you."

"Oh ha, ha. Anyway, I don't blame him. The plum pudding is _particularly _good this year."

"Unlike this eggnog…" Fergus grimaced, wiping his moustache with the back of his hand. As one both brothers peered unhappily into their goblets. Turning to each other, they saluted each other before pouring the gloopy contents of their goblets into the base of the plant before returning to their tandem, surreptitious study of the women in the room.

-oo-

"You could have stayed you know, I would have been happy to wait until Ryan was available. He could have walked me back…"

"Oh…pshh…" Alyce waved a dismissive hand at her companion. "I like strolling about at this time of the day…night," she corrected hastily. "And if your brother's covering for someone expecting a little bouncing Satinalia bundle of joy, who knows when he'll be available?" Alyce ended discussion on the subject by aiming a jagged spark into the surrounding shrubbery. There was a startled squawk and a flurry of feathers before something attacked the furry hair pins attached to the top of Alyce's head, stopping only when the avian assailant decided the two interlopers were far enough away from its hiding place.

Judging it safe themselves to stop running, Alyce pulled the pins from her hair, lobbing them into the darkness, to be on the safe side. "Sorry about that…" She turned to Morwenna to find the other woman doubled over in laughter.

Alyce parked her fists onto her hips. "You know, it really wasn't that funny,' she told Ser Ryan's sister.

"Oh yes it was!" Morwenna disagreed, wiping a hand across her streaming eyes. "Do you do this a lot?" she asked.

"When I think my companions need amusement," Alyce replied dryly. "Sometimes I'll even injure myself, just for a bit of a laugh."

"Life with you must never be dull," Morwenna grinned, looking very Ser Ryanish with the single dimple in her cheek. "My brother is a very lucky man."

Alyce both stumbled over her own feet and choked at the same time, possibly because she had just stepped into a rabbit hole and partially because she had just inhaled a large mosquito. Morwenna helpfully thumped her on her back. "What?" Alyce gasped hoarsely. "_Why_?"

"I would think it fairly obvious," Morwenna said, eyes glinting mysteriously in the dark. "That you and my brother…"

"Oh…no. No, no, no, no, no, no..." Alyce waved her hands vigorously in denial. "There is _definitely _no 'me and your brother'."

Morwenna cast her a sceptical glance. _They really are twins…_Alyce thought, struck even more by the resemblance between the woman standing before her and the tall, ex-soon-to-be-again-Templar…person. All one had to do was remove a foot of height, grow the hair longer, make it darker, remove the stubble, soften the planes of the face, slice off a substantial amount of muscle, add in some womanly curves and…well, the _expressions _were identical anyhow, trying not to choke again by the image in her head of Ser Ryan in a dress.

_Oh Andraste's smoking jacket…that'll be a painful one to remove…_

"You know," Morwenna began to warn her sternly. "The more you protest, the less people are going to believe you."

"But…! And not…! That's…! Nurk…!"

"Believing you less…" Morwenna reminded her. "Besides, I think it's a good thing." She ploughed on, claiming Alyce's arm in a bear-trap grip and continuing along the path. "Maker knows this family could do with some more good news."

"Well, he's not g…" Alyce stopped herself before she mentioned the Knight Commander thing. She wasn't too sure whether Ser Ryan had told his family yet. It certainly wasn't her place to do so now – or any time for that matter – and she would not be doing him any favours if he had as yet to inform them. Alyce did not consider herself a 'people person', but even she could see that things were not perfectly perfect between Ser Ryan and his family. If he took up the position of Knight Commander…no, she didn't want to think about that one. It was none of her beeswax and she should definitely keep her nose out of the whole business…Even if she _had_ just arranged for the entire Tremayne clan to move in with her aunt…

Alyce looked down at Morwenna, hoping her little slip had not been noticed and heard a sigh.

"I envy you both," Morwenna said softly, staring into the mist hung night, a small smile the only light in her lovely face. "I remember being in love once." The smile twisted slightly. "I never quite got over that one…" She looked up at Alyce then, the smile gone completely. "My husband, if you're wondering."

Alyce opened her mouth to say something; anything, feeling some kind of comment was required, but she could think of nothing. Her brain refused to cooperate.

"There are few days when I don't think of By," Morwenna continued, unaware of the curtain of awkwardness Alyce had drawn about herself. "Even more when Myf was so ill and I thought I was going to lose her…" Alyce felt Morwenna's hand tighten on her arm. A moment later Morwenna gave a short, humourless snort of laughter. "For a while, I thought By was trying to claim her from the beyond the Fade…" She looked up slightly, seeing only the image her mind conjured for her.

"Myfanwy was born the week after Byron left for Ostagar," she told Alyce. "He never got to see his daughter. The hardest thing I've ever had to do…" she continued in a voice barely above a whisper. "…The first time I ever held her…and knew her father would never see her…It was…"

She took a deep breath, the Tremayne steel returning. "How many other children will never see their fathers?" she said bitterly. "Or mothers? How many mothers and fathers will never see their children again? The Blight took so much. Our land, our King, so many, many lives…" She shook her head sadly and paused mid-step.

"Mother doesn't blame Ryan for Geraint or Bryant," Morwenna said suddenly. "It's…complicated and difficult to explain but she doesn't blame him for their deaths. Bryant…I'd like to think he managed to escape somehow, but I suppose if he had, we would have heard from him by now. It would be just like him to sacrifice himself to save others."

She released Alyce's arm and began to walk once more. "I don't know whether you've noticed, but we Tremaynes – the men especially – seem to be afflicted with a stubborn streak of self-sacrifice. It's probably why my brothers chose to join the Order. Geraint…perhaps a little less, but he was talented in other ways. An Orzammar Smith once offered to train him in Smith-crafting but…at the time it meant leaving Ferelden to travel beyond the Free Marches. He didn't want to leave us on our own.

"As for Ryan…Bryant left home long before father started to show signs of lyrium poisoning. Ryan saw father turn; saw the changes and yet he still had _faith…_"

"And you didn't?" Alyce asked, finally finding her voice.

Morwenna returned another of her bleak smiles. "I know it's awful to say so, but I do not…_share_ the same love of the Chantry and the Prophet as my father and older brothers do…did. My mother was not Andrastian. She wasn't raised living and breathing the Chant. Father found her quite savage when they first met in fact. I think that was part of the attraction, whereas _mother _found the Ferelden reliance on some mystic individual being responsible for the fates of lesser beings somewhat primitive. She has even less to say of the idea of a golden city and the devotion to what she termed…what was it again? 'A faithless, cheating hussy'?"

Alyce stared as politely at Morwenna as she could while she determined how much trouble she would be in if she laughed at that statement, eventually redirecting her gaze into the shadows of the surrounding forest. _Maybe it was the right decision after all…suggesting the Tremaynes move in with Aunt Mildred…_Mrs Tremayne and Aunt Mildred were already of one mind from a theological perspective…

"Well," Morwenna added, with a hint of mischief, "she actually comes up with worse things than that, but I probably shouldn't repeat them. Not in polite company and _certainly _not while in the district of good Mother Mallol's ministry."

"But you were all raised this way?" Alyce asked, surprised. "Questioning the Chant and yet Ry…Ser Ryan became Ser Ryan?" Wonders would never cease, it seemed. Not in a world where new old gods were created by dark rituals and slaying of dragons.

Morwenna laughed outright. It was a nice sound, this genuine laugh.

"Oh, mother behaved herself for father," she said, with a cheeky tilt to her mouth. "And father understood. He was quite different before. I wish you could have known him then. He used to be so lively; as sharp as a boot tack. Mother was a _challenge _and he so loved his challenges. Of us all, I think Ryan is the most like him…Though the Chantry seems to have leeched all of that life from Ryan. He's so…so serious now. So _responsible, _urgh! I want to slap him…and mother too, for not just taking him aside and telling him how she really feels."

"And…how _does_ she feel?" Alyce asked cautiously, breaking her 'none of her beeswax' rule, just this one time.

"As I said, it's difficult to describe," Morwenna told her. "It's…mother would tell you that she was cursed with identical children. She used to mix Bryant and Ryan up. Geraint used to get so angry when she called _him _Ryan by mistake. Oh! There's the cottage…your company has certainly made this trip shorter than it is. I thank you."

Alyce waved goodnight; waiting until Morwenna was well inside the Tremayne's cottage before turning away. It occurred to her that the latter part of Morwenna's rushed conversation might have been a way to lighten the mood a little. She had never wondered at Myfanwy's age before and to not know her father…well Alyce knew a little about that, not knowing either of her own parents. She knew that her father had been a Circle mage…once. As for her mother…Alyce never believed those rumours about her mother being an elf or having any magical ability. She had never known her parents but she did not miss them. How could she, not ever having met them to form any attachment? She had her Aunt Mildred and that had been enough…

Alyce halted beneath an elderly oak; quite common in this area…her hand as always going to the pouch of ashes with Geraint's leaf magically stitched to the front. If her parents had lived and she had known them but lost them to the Blight…It had been bad enough worrying about Aunt Mildred and whether she would be safe. It would have been…Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a thump and a violent rustle in the woods. Hastily conjuring a glowing ball of fire between her hands, Alyce glared into the darkness.

"Who is it?" she called out. "Show yourself!"

The bushes rustled again and a figure exploded from the darkness, cursing and swearing.

"Sodding Stone Alyce, you're a hard one to track…!"

Alyce doused the fire, her arms falling limply to her sides. "N-N-Ner-Neria?" she stuttered.

"Oh, why do you always call me that?"

The Warden Commander extricated herself from a clump of dead bracken, stepping out onto the muddy path. "I only have the one 'N' in my name and it's pronounced with three syllables. Only _three._ Neh. Ri. Ah. It's not complicated you know."

"Why are you lurking?" Alyce asked her, recovering fast.

Neria finished brushing the dead things from the leaves of her Warden's leather armour before answering. When she did, she bestowed a rather chagrined grimace on her old Tower friend.

"I was looking for you," Neria stated slowly. "As I indicated before."

"Why are you looking?" Alyce asked, adjusting the lettering in her earlier question slightly.

"I need your help, seeing as you are now the expert in these sorts of…_things."_

"What things?" Alyce continued doggedly, as Neria was enjoying being evasive.

"Oh you know…" Neria waved an elegant hand casually in the air. "Possession. Old Magic. Dragons."

Alyce thought this over, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Aren't _you _the resident expert on dragons? You killed three of them after all…"

"Two."

"No, I remember you saying 'three'," Alyce corrected her. "You killed three."

"Two."

"Two?"

"Two."

Alyce took a deep breath. "And…what is the reason for this sudden lapse in arithmetic?" she asked, steeling herself for the answer.

"I didn't kill one of them," Neria said, inspecting a small chip on the nail of her little finger. "_Obviously_…"

"Really?"

"Really." Removing a tiny dagger from one of the many loops on her ornate belt, Neria began to pare the offending nail. "I lied about that one actually."

"You…What, you _lied_?"

"Yeah," Neria looked up through the single curl that fell across her pale forehead. "I lied. I kind of…made a deal. A rather good one actually, except something's kind of…come up."

"The dragon, I take it?" Alyce surmised, folding her arms and dreading more of Neria's revelations. What was next? Had the Grey Wardens gone on some kind of weird rampage through Denerim, killed the Grand Cleric and face-painted the Queen? She wouldn't have been surprised if they had.

"Not…exactly."

Alyce sighed. "Neria, there really aren't enough hours in a day, and this one is almost over."

"Oh, it is. Over," the elf helpfully informed her. "Happy Satinalia by the way."

"It's Satinalia?" Alyce asked, nonplussed. "When did that happ…Oh yeah…damn. And I didn't get you anything. Sorry."

"Not a problem. I got you something though," Neria grinned. "Bet you're going to _love _it. Something you've always wanted."

"…uh…huh…?"

"You'll laugh when I tell you. Really. Stop staring at me like that."

"Just tell me!" Alyce stamped her foot impatiently.

Neria laughed nervously. "An angry witch actually," Neria's grin failed, finally. "And um a…thing…"

"Thing?" Should she even ask? "What kind of…_thing_ are we talking about?"

"Small thing. Has legs, two arms. Cries a lot. Put food in one end, comes out the other processed."

Alyce stared at Neria in growing disbelief. "You're talking about a…"

"Heck yeah," Neria told her. Reaching out, Neria patted Alyce on the shoulder in a less than reassuring way. "Welcome to the world of swaddling and projectile vomiting Lyce," Neria told her cheerfully. "I know you'll make a wonderful mother…"

-oo-


	51. A Long Day

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read (still!) and especially to send a review. I sit and giggle stupidly to myself every time a review notice comes in, so they're very, very much appreciated!

This is a bit of a talk-fest I'm afraid, and Alyce uses a naughty word staring with 'W'. Kids, just so you know, it's not nice at all to use it in polite company. Unless you want your mouth washed out with virtual lye soap…and receive a very stern talking to by Aunt Mildred…Just make sure you blink while reading, okay?

-oo-

**Chapter 51 – A Long Day**

The chair was incredibly comfortable for something so old but it seemed to fit both the style of the old house and her friend. There had always been an air of age about Alyce, Neria reminisced. Not _maturity;_ but a kind of old-batty-ness about Amell. For as long as Neria had known her Alyce had never much cared about what she said or did, unless she knew it would hurt someone. It was what Neria had admired most about Alyce; her outspokenness and her out-doing-ness, along with her sense of what was _right_. They had always been an odd couple at the Tower - well, an odd _trio,_ if one counted Jowan - in appearance as well as character. Despite their differences, they had developed a mutual respect and admiration for each other; Neria even more so since Varel's rescue at Vigil's Keep. It was then that Neria realised what a powerful mage Alyce Amell had come to be. Powerful, eccentric, dedicated, studious, warm, loyal, insightful…all those things and more.

Mature? Her eyes drifted somewhat impatiently over the shuddering, cackling bundle of expensive velvet and lace on the floor. _That's a definite no…_Neria concluded, sinking deeper into the threadbare upholstery. Her fingers ran idly along the leftover tufty bits at the perimeter of the seat. It was comforting, even if it was a bit like running one's hands through an elderly man's comb over.

Alyce continued to demonstrate just how mature she was with that cackle-snort laughter of hers that made Neria wince every time Alyce snorted, fearing for the health of her friend's nasal tissue. There was however, little else she could do but wait and listen in pain. Alyce had not finished laughing at her; breaking into peals of rib-shaking laughter every time she happened to glance over. Neria supposed it was better than the last time they had seen each other…Though Neria was in two minds now whether she preferred Alyce angry at her or Alyce finding her unresolvedly amusing. It was beginning to wear on her already anxious nerves.

She needed to get this over with. She was running out of time.

"Alright, you've had your laugh," Neria decided enough was enough. "You've had your chance to mock me. Your fun. Thank you. Can we proceed?"

Remaining on the floor with her legs propped up onto the long chaise lounge; Alyce shook a finger at her. "Oh no," she said, eyes red with unshed, mirthful tears. "This opportunity may not happen ever again. I'm running with it."

"Until you fall over and break your neck, Enchanter Amell," Neria growled, unimpressed.

"Ooh! So formal…" Alyce made no effort to rise, instead crossing her feet at the ankles. She took a deep, calming breath. "Okay…okay…no, wait, one more…_pfft…!_ Maker, my sides hurt…!"

"Don't expect any sympathy from me," Neria scowled at her.

"Ha! And don't expect any from me!" Alyce snapped back. "Hoo, Ner you have been a busy, busy little Warden Commander."

"Too busy," Neria slumped impossibly further. "The First Warden sent me a _letter. _It was practically on fire. Varel had to hand it to me with tongs."

"Trouble in Grey Warden paradise?" Alyce enquired with a far too innocent stare. "And I thought all Grey Wardens were such happy, _accepting _people."

"Don't make me zap you, Alyce."

Resting her head on her arms, Alyce sighed. "Zap…Holy Smite…It's all the same to me," she muttered under her breath. Waving a hand airily at the diminutive mage in the overlarge chair, she added more loudly; "Oh go on, everyone wants to."

"I sense a story there."

"One less exciting than yours, I'll wager," Alyce said. She paused then scrambled upright. "Oh, very well then..."

She settled herself atop the chaise, hiking the skirt of her evening dress above her knees so she could sit cross-legged, grabbing a moth-eaten cushion to hug. The fire in the grate had warmed the room nicely, but neither mage could find any dry wood and as Alyce had very firmly vetoed the idea of burning the furniture, it was beginning to burn low already. Best get this over with before they started freezing to death.

"So…" Alyce began cautiously. "You _knew _what you were creating when you agreed to perform this _ritual _with this marsh witch of yours?"

Neria nodded. "It was an act of desperation, Lyce," she said, throwing her head back and regarding the ceiling beams. "And of cowardice on my part, I know," she added in a smaller voice.

"Well," Alyce said reasonably. "No one wants to die. Especially if they think they have something worth living for."

Neria's attention snapped back to Alyce. She winced, knowing full well what Alyce was referring to. _That _had been the thing that had angered Alyce the most; Neria's cheek stinging in remembrance as she recalled the look in her friend's eye that day…Neria did not feel guilty about what she had done; she couldn't. The decision she had made the night before they had faced the Archdemon had been made perhaps under great stress but given the opportunity to do it again, Neria was sure she would make the same decision again. No, she wasn't guilty at all…not about that. It was just the _way _she had gone about it at the time, using the feelings of another to obtain something else…her conscience was a trifle uneasy about that. She might have ended the relationship with Alistair, but Alistair hadn't ended it with _her _and she had known it.

It would be something Neria could never bring herself to forgive or forget.

Across from her, Alyce threw her hands into the air. She let fly an 'argh', before leaning back. "_Fine_, guilt-trip over. What are you going to _do_?"

"Morrigan knows now that I lied to her," Neria told her quietly. "She also knows why I lied, why I didn't kill her mother…" Looking over at Alyce, Neria was unsurprised to see an eyebrow lifting on her friend's forehead. "How could I murder the woman who saved us? We both – Alistair and I – would have died at Ostagar if she hadn't _swooped _down to rescue us and take us to safety. I would have preferred it if she rescued someone more important, like the King or Duncan or…I don't know…"

"She could have torched General Loghain while she was at it…" Alyce suggested. "That would have been a fun thing to see."

Neria looked even more uncomfortable when the old general's name was mentioned. Alyce narrowed her eyes at her, but decided to move on. She did not even want to _think _about whether or not Neria the Grey Warden pulled yet another swifty and managed somehow to _not _execute _that _man…

"So…Flemeth transformed, swooped and saved," Alyce said quickly before Neria had a chance for more worrying confessions about her life during the Blight. "And then she sent her daughter to travel with you, because you know, the two remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden didn't _already_ consist of a competent healer-battle-mage and really needed someone _magical _to accompany them."

"Alyce…"

"…and practice being Magey…so she could be powerful enough to be inhabited later," Alyce continued, pouting at a nearby ottoman.

"_Alyce_…"

"Because you know, helping a powerful witch-turned-demon-turned-whatever to continue living…we really need one of those in Ferelden. Bit of colour for the country. Attract a bit of tourist money..."

"And here I was thinking you were going to take me seriously," Neria sighed, earning her a sharp look from the taller mage.

"Oh I'm taking you seriously, Ner, believe _me…_" Maintaining her glare, Alyce waved her hand again. "Continue."

"You also said the guilt trip was over," Neria reminded her.

"Meh."

"Alyce, you know what this means, well…apart from all that stuff you've just told me about, that is," Neria said quickly.

"The end of the world as we know it?" Alyce suggested dryly.

"Hardly," Neria sighed back. "I know you'll tell me I'm being a hypocrite when I felt…betrayed when Morrigan first proposed the ritual. We'd been through so much together. We had become friends. I trusted her and then all of a sudden it seemed as though the 'friendship' was merely a means to an end; buttering me up so I could agree to the ritual."

"Wouldn't it have been better to simply butter up the King…potential king?" Alyce said thoughtfully. "Hm…you know; I'd like to see that too…King Alistair popping out of a pie, covered in…" She cleared her throat hastily, cheeks cherry red. "Never mind…you were saying?"

"Hm…pie…" Neria murmured.

"Blueberry, I'm thinking…"

"I'm thinking something savoury…"

"Not sweet?" Alyce's eyebrows rose.

"Alistair's sweet enough," Neria explained.

"And my entire set of molars just rotted right out of my head with that comment," Alyce said, rolling her eyes, the image of _the King _popping out of a pie in her head being replaced by someone older and darker causing her to thump her temples with her fists. "Can we just move on…?" she pleaded.

"Anyway…" Neria continued as requested. "Morrigan and Alistair…didn't get on, though when we did it…and when I say 'we' I really mean Alistair and Morrigan, Morrigan and Alistair…darkened room, incense…and you know I never heard a single scream, so he must have enjoyed himself."

"That's how you justify whoring your fellow Grey Warden?" Alyce asked, agog. "And they didn't…_like _each other? Andraste's bouncing bazoombas, Ner…"

"Bazoomba? What the Fade is a 'bazoomba'? You make it sound so…dirty," Neria complained.

"Not if they both washed first," Alyce quipped, perhaps unnecessarily. "Anyhoo, neither of you had any concerns about this? About the poor child being the target of darkspawn? A Blight starting all over again straight after?"

Neria shrugged. "Neither Morrigan or Flemeth had any concerns…" Neria caught Alyce expression and sighed. "Right, shouldn't have trusted that one…stupid me…"

"Well it's done," Alyce echoed Neria's sigh. "And she had this…god child thing," she added, staring once more at the ceiling beams. "Morrigan. So…how dangerous is this creature?"

"Baby, Alyce," Neria corrected her. "And I would hardly call him dangerous, unless you consider being gummed to death 'dangerous'."

"Him…" Alyce mused with a grimace. "The heir to the Ferelden throne is a god baby with no teeth. Has _that _occurred to you?"

"Which is where," Neria began slowly and deliberately. "You come in."

"No, no, no," Alyce waved a reluctant hand. "I haven't arrived at all. I'm floating somewhere over Gwaren…and I'm not likely to land; due to unfriendly terrain, just so you know…"

"Alyce…"

"Oh-ho…don't you 'Alyce' me," Alyce warned her over a waggling finger. "Don't even _think _about foisting some poor child on _me. _I can barely look after myself, much less some…darkspawn baby…thing…"

"He's _cute_…" Neria told her in a wheedling tone of voice.

"Shut up," Alyce warned her again. "You are not to use my weakness for small, adorable things against me. That isn't playing fair."

"And when have I ever played fair?" Neria prompted her.

Alyce groaned as though struck. "You used to be such a sweet girl! I hate you…and I hate how you've managed to dig yourself into this bloody big hole. You stupid, stupid, _stupid_ mage. I mean what were you _thinking_, really?"

"Death by Archdemon," Neria replied simply. "The huge responsibility ahead…everyone's expectations…The inevitable destruction of my homeland…How many of my beloved companions were about to die…Bann Teagan in orange tights…"

"And you do realise, don't you," Alyce told her, ignoring the mention of Bann Teagan and his undergarments, "that withholding this child from the King is an act of treason?"

"I'm not withholding him, Alyce. We _agreed _beforehand that the child would never make a claim for the throne," Neria explained. "Alistair didn't like it, but he _agreed._ We were also never to contact Morrigan, or try to find her but of course that was when she thought that her mother was dead and wouldn't go…looking for her…Morrigan is still after all, Flemeth's best chance at maintaining her longevity."

"And this child is the king's best chance at maintaining the longevity of the Theirin line," Alyce countered.

"Alistair can still father a child, Alyce…"

"Without magical intervention?" Alyce asked, noting the doubt in Neria's voice. "The kind of intervention the Chantry might get a tad upset over? He needed help with Morrigan, didn't he? What's to say he won't need it again? Not that…I'm going to suggest being the helper…Ever." Neria merely looked at her, without saying anything. Alyce hated that look worse of all. No expression on Neria was a bad, bad thing. "Do I even want to ask how you acquired this child, your witch telling you 'get lost' notwithstanding?"

Neria stared again. Alyce threw up her hands in defeat, feeling as though this conversation had gone on far, far too long and it still felt as though she had learned _nothing_. She didn't want to be involved. Neria was a friend, but surely this sort of thing went beyond friendship? There had to be a rule somewhere; a line that read _do not cross…_And if there was, Alyce was sure that Neria had crossed it.

Several times over.

The fire in the grate sputtered and spat, the single log almost spent. Alyce wished she had a bucket of sand she could stick her head into. Today had been a long day; far too long…Templar-almost-confessions-of-love, Knight Commanders, proposals, plum pudding and god babies…Dropping her head into her hands Alyce inhaled slowly and deeply. _A complicated life…? I guess I should have been careful what I wished for…_

"It's far too late and I'm too…annoyed and tired to make any decisions…" she told Neria. _Urgh, and I'm supposed to meet Aunt Mildred in a few hours…Why did I bother waking up this morning? _"You can stay here tonight," Alyce suggested. "I have to meet someone tomorrow, but the two of us will feel better with some sleep at our backs. _I certainly would, anyhow…_Unfolding and rising, Alyce ran a hand through her ruined hair. It was never going to stay looking the way Nettie had arranged it, even if it had been nice to be…pretty for a short while.

"I'll show you to a reasonably clean room," Alyce said passing by. When Neria made no move, she flicked the elf's ear; something Neria absolutely _hated._

Neria slapped Alyce's hand from her head. "Anyway," Neria stood, a hint of smugness in the smaller woman's voice that set Alyce's teeth to stone. "_Irving_ thinks it's a good idea; hiding the child in theTower of Magi. What better place to conceal someone like a god baby than surrounded by Templars and Mages?"

Alyce had been halfway to the door. When she turned to stare, she did so with a great deal of intensity. Her mind spinning in several different directions, Alyce struggled mightily with this new, shattering piece of information. When she found her voice, it sounded overloud and shrill.

"_What!" _she shouted, "You consulted _the First Enchanter_! Since when was a bleeding_ MAGE _ever to be _trusted_?"

-oo-

Dagna's stomach growled but she ignored it, marking off this section on her map and moving on. Growing up underground had given her an instinct for finding her way through stone passages and circuitous routes, but it had also taught her to be practical and one of the first things she had done when they had arrived at Castle Cousland was to draw a map of the place – in scale of course – with the help of some friendly castle staff.

She was worried. She had gone by Alyce's room this morning to pick her up for breakfast (Alyce's sense of direction not being as…refined as a dwarf's) and had found the room empty, the bed unslept in. She knew Alyce had gone to the Tremayne's home the previous night. Had something happened? There were few people who could best her mentor, especially when Alyce got angry…Not even a Tower full of Templars would stand a chance. Alyce was just too quick and Dagna was left wondering how a band of roving dwarf mercenaries could have gone unnoticed in Highever, seeing as Dwarves were the only creatures in Ferelden who were immune to Alyce's magic…

She met Ser Hanleigh in the inner courtyard, carrying a plate of pastries. As he handed them to her, he reported that no, he had not seen Enchanter Amell in the breakfast room, but picked these up as searching for the Enchanter might have made her hungry. Dagna smiled gratefully at him, her worry increasing.

"Are there any Templar abilities you can use to find her?" she asked Ser Hanleigh.

The Templar clasped his hands together. "I would have to request her phylactery from Denerim," he said, pink-cheeked. "And I'd rather not. I don't want anyone to think the Enchanter'd gone apostate. Enchanter Amell would never go apostate."

"No, she wouldn't!" Dagna agreed, biting down on a pastry fiercely. "These are good by the way, thank you."

"You're welcome, Miss."

"Dagna."

"Dagna…" Ser Hanleigh drew the word out, enjoying the sound of her name as it emerged in his own voice. "It's pretty. Like you."

Despite her anxiety, Dagna beamed, passing the plate to Ser Hanleigh to share. "I…like your name too," she told him shyly. "Does it mean anything?"

Ser Hanleigh paused mid-bite. "It's actually misspelled," he told her.

Dagna's titian eyebrows rose, impressed. "Really?" she asked.

"I'm actually called 'Handy'," Ser Hanleigh went on, nibbling at a pastry in between. "I'm the only boy in my family, you see. My Mum thought it was pretty handy to have a boy finally, so that's what she named me. The Sister who delivered me misspelled my name on the registration papers." He gave a quick shrug. "So it kind of stuck."

"I…see…" Dagna gulped, remnants of her pastry falling from her fingertips. "That's…" _handy…_"Anyway, we should…" Her words faded when she spotted a familiar, dark-haired figure cross the other end of the courtyard. Grabbing Ser Handy's arm, she tugged him across to the other side, yelling, "Ser Ryan!"

The individual in question had been in the process of unbuckling his breastplate and the piping voice carrying across the chilly morning stones was a surprise to his sleep-muddied brain. He turned, smiling at Ser Hanleigh and Alyce's young Apprentice.

"Dagmar…isn't it?" Ser Ryan said with a bow.

"Dagna." It was Ser Hanleigh that corrected him.

"And what may I do for you, Apprentice Dagna?" Ser Ryan asked, hiding the smile caused by Ser Hanleigh's sudden but serious study of the space above his left shoulder.

"Oh never mind about that," Dagna waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Have you seen Alyce? She walked a friend home last night, but didn't come back…She didn't…end up with you, did she?" she ended rather hopefully.

Ser Ryan frowned. "No, I've been on duty until only very recently." This caused Dagna to bounce up and down anxiously, chewing on her bottom lip. "Who was the friend?" he asked.

"Your sister, Morwenna" Dagna said. "Ooh, where could she _be_? I'm quite sure she hasn't slept in her bed…" She looked up at him with wide, worried eyes. "And she didn't take her mage staff with her…"

The trio looked at each other, the gravity of the missing mage increasing. The thought was the same. Alyce Amell out and about without her mage staff to focus her power was a terrifying one. Ser Ryan's gaze rose above the stone tops of the courtyard, beyond the crenellations and spires, slowly scanning the sky. He could see no obvious smoke trails or strange colours on the horizon and if there had been any unusual deaths, injuries or species-reassignment in the last few hours, he would definitely have heard about it on his watch.

"I don't think we should send for her phylactery," Ser Hanleigh said, seeking reassurance from his ex-Tower associate. "Enchanter Amell wouldn't go apostate. But perhaps…" he added with a flash of insight, "owing to the lateness of the evening she decided to stay with the friend overnight."

Ser Ryan gripped the Templar's arm gratefully. "You're probably right, Ser Hanleigh. I'm on my way home now. I'm sure I'll see her there."

"And if you don't?" Dagna asked, feeling the need to ask the question.

"We listen for the screams," Ser Ryan told her.

-oo-


	52. Leftovers

-oo-

**Chapter 52 – Leftovers**

Light streamed through the window, penetrating Alyce's gummy eyelids layer by layer. She rolled over and opened her eyes, shielding one side of her face with her hand. It was later in the day than she would have liked, hoping that Aunt Mildred hadn't had to wait for her too long. While her aunt had not specified a particular time she didn't want to inconvenience…She bolted upright, suddenly realising she had forgotten to leave a note for Dagna. Not that she could have. When she had offered to escort Morwenna home, she had not planned on staying out all night. Still, she didn't want anyone to worry. The sooner she headed back to Cousland Castle, the better. The last thing Alyce wanted was a panicking Dagna breaking into the Denerim Chantry to try and steal her phylactery so the dwarf could 'hunt' her herself…

Rubbing at her eyes, Alyce swung her legs over the side of the bed, coming face to knee with a set of large, blue-brown eyes beneath a messy thatch of darkish hair.

The child swayed on its chubby feet, clutching at the material of her dress in chubbier, drool-sticky hands in an attempt to remain upright. When Alyce did nothing more than stare in bewilderment, it chewed experimentally on her knee with surprising strength. Suppressing the urge to scream, Alyce merely sighed. Looking about the room, she was completely unsurprised to find not a trace of Neria. Nor were there any provisions left for the child, setting off her internal alarms.

Neria never did mention exactly _how _she obtained this…child and if she marched right now to Vigil's Keep, Alyce doubted she would find the Warden Commander in residence there to question. She would very much want to know whether anyone was likely to come looking for the child. More accurately, she wanted to know whether anyone _angry _was likely to come searching for the child…and whether or not it would be human…

Grinding her own teeth, Alyce carefully and gently prised the baby's jaws from around her knee. She could cheerfully _throttle _Neria Surana right now. _Damn her…!_

Leaning down, Alyce picked up the child, checking what little clothes it wore for a name tag or even more hopefully…instructions. There was nothing, except a familiar, pungent smell as warm fluid soaked into her sleeve. She screwed up her nose.

"Come on…thing," she told it…him…Hadn't Neria mentioned it was a boy? Would it be rude to look? She wasn't willing to try. "I think I had better take you to an expert…"

Aunt Mildred would know what to do…surely…Because if she didn't then it _was _the end of the world as she knew it to be.

-oo-

"And you're quite sure she intended to return to the castle?"

Morwenna lifted her eyebrows at her brother. It was the third time he had asked. As far as she was concerned, that particular topic had already been discussed and while not concluded to everyone's satisfaction, it was a mystery why Ryan was still_ here_, and not leaping onto his white destrier and riding off to find his lady love.

Of course, that was only a brief image flashing in her mind. Her brother Ryan was the last person she could imagine leaping onto anything, much less a _horse._ He was a competent horseman, but he was not particularly hot headed, romantic or spontaneous. Or at least, he never used to be…She reached out and poked him hard in the chest.

"Just go and look for her, Ry," she told him. "You're welcome to look under the cushions in Mama's sitting room," she added dryly, "but I doubt you'll find her there."

Ser Ryan frowned impatiently. "I merely asked a question," he said rather defensively. "As part of my current inquiries…"

"Oh for the Maker's sake Ryan," Morwenna rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You're a man, aren't you?" she demanded. "Your lady love is missing. Just go and find her, in as manly a way as possible!"

There it was…a creep of dark red washing up the exposed skin of his neck. When Ser Ryan blushed it encompassed his entire face, including the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. Morwenna grinned smugly at him, justifiably proud of her handiwork. Causing embarrassment to her twin had always been such a challenge. Not even when he had that awful crush on that barmaid could she manage to discombobulate him as she had just now. For that reason alone, she adored Alyce Amell…

"Well?" she asked him. "Are you going or not?"

He raised a hand. He managed to waggle a warning finger at her, but found it difficult doing anything else. Turning on his heel, Ser Ryan left, the sound of his sister's rather witchy laughter ringing in his ears. _Lady love…_He supposed it was – sort of – true. It was simply something he preferred to associate with a younger Ryan, someone who still believed in the goodness of people; a long lost individual with the energy and optimism of youth. As a Templar, he knew he could not be with Alyce, despite his father's own example. The vow he took eschewing all but the Maker and His Prophet had been done with the full intention of never breaking it.

Not even for Alyce.

He would not be worthy of her if he broke that vow; any vow, even if he wished that he could. Or wanted to…

Lucky the morning was a cold one.

As an ordinary soldier on the other hand, there was little he could offer Alyce. He could barely afford to support his own family, much less a wife and a family of his own. He paused, pushing the thought of Alyce as _his wife_ and the mother of his children firmly and resolutely out of his head. Perhaps it was that thought, brief though it was that conjured the noise in his ears…the universe plucking it out of his head and making him hear things. It sounded very much like a young child crying…and it did not abate or disappear.

Following the cry took him to the blasted path Alyce had cleared to Amell House. Sitting on a charred log half way along the path was Alyce Amell herself…jiggling an infant on her knee. Despite his thoughts earlier, it still took him several seconds for the sight to register; his brain being unable to accept what his eyes were seeing and then she happened to look up and the look of relief on her face was so ridiculous he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Oh, thank the Maker you're here, Ryan…!" she exclaimed, wobbling to her feet. She held the child out towards him like a loaf of bread. "You're a Templar," she told him. "You'd know what to do right? It won't stop crying, it smells funny and I have to see Aunt Mildred. If she sees me with this…never mind. Just take him, please!"

Ser Ryan made no move to claim the child, folding his arms across his chest. What did she mean by 'you're a Templar, you know what to do'? Part of Chantry training as far as he could recall, had _not _included child-raising. If he had, he would have noticed. Craning his neck around the child – who had stopped crying and simply bubbled wetly at him – he addressed Alyce.

"Is there…something you should have told me, Alyce?" he asked wryly. "I'm finding it difficult imagining you engaging in some torrid affair to produce this…" It was a poor choice of words, because of course, he _could…_

"Don't make me scar that pretty face of yours, Templar!" she bristled at him. "He's not mine…_obviously_."

"You do realise I was jesting?" he said, eyebrows rising._ She thinks I have a pretty face?_

"Just take it!"

"No."

"Poop." Lowering the child, but holding it so it made as little contact with her as possible, Alyce grimaced in distaste. "What am I going to do with it? Look at it; it can't do anything but be wet and smelly. I'm going to _murder_ that elf when I see her next…If I see her…"

"Elf?" Ser Ryan enquired.

Alyce sighed. "Long story…Oh, don't you start…" she groaned, when the child began to cry again. She held it out towards him and it promptly stopped crying. Looking suddenly speculative, Alyce brought it back towards her and to Ser Ryan's intense disapproval, it began crying again. Once she extended it back towards him, it stopped wailing.

"Hoo…" she began, her expression brightening.

"Erase that thought from your head this minute, Enchanter Amell," he began in warning. "I am _not _taking charge of this child."

"Aw, but he likes you!" Alyce grinned hopefully at him. "At least, can you carry him for a while? He's damned heavy for someone so small and he's not so good at the walking bit just yet."

"And where are we taking him?" Ser Ryan asked, remaining solidly at a safe distance.

"Your place," she informed him. "I thought at first I'd take him to Aunt Mildred, but she doesn't hold with damp things, so I'm going to have Morwenna take a look at him and help me clean him up before I present him to my aunt."

"Present him to…" he scowled at her. "You're not seriously considering _keeping_ this child? In the Tower? The Chantry is quite clear on this Alyce. All children of mages belong to the…"

"He's not a child of a Circle Mage!" Alyce exclaimed, trying to keep her face straight. It was sort of true. Neria's witch friend had not been part of the Circle, though if it showed signs of magic at some point in time, she was going to find it difficult explaining why, especially if the First Enchanter wasn't there to do all the explaining for her. Irving was not a _young _man, after all…How many springs did the old humbug have left in this mortal coil? Years? Months. _If I had my way, it would be days…_

Thinking how Neria consulted the First Enchanter before her _best friend _made Alyce scowl anew. It was all so…so…and how much did Irving know anyway? Most probably that old busybody Wynne had briefed him post-Blight and so Neria had been forced to confess….It was reason enough to be cautious and…_oh, Holy Maker, how am I going to explain this to Senior Torrin…He's going to be sarcastic and witty at me, I just know it…_

"If that is the case, _who_ or whom is the parent or parents?" Ser Ryan asked coolly, clearly suspecting she knew more than she was willing to let on.

"A…friend," Alyce offered reluctantly.

"A 'friend'?"

"Yes. A friend," Alyce snapped. "Can we just move on? His lips are turning blue and I don't have anything to put him in…and before you ask," she added hotly, "I am _not _leaving him at some orphanage and if you suggest that I do, I'm going to stab you in the buttock with my…" She looked around, realised she did not have her mage staff with her but continued nevertheless. "…Wait until I get back to the castle, grab my mage staff and poke you very hard with it then…"

"I quake with fear," Ser Ryan sighed.

"Stop channelling Torrin," she scolded, holding out the child for him again. "And carry him will you? My arms are about to fall out of their sockets."

Ser Ryan reluctantly took charge of the child, concerned that it was indeed turning slightly blue-ish, but trying manfully not to show it. The fact that the two of them walked rather companionably along the path with an infant between them made him feel even more uncomfortable. He glanced down at Alyce's still-scowling face. She appeared to be muttering something unpleasant under her breath. And then he noticed that she was not in her usual garb…

"You're…dressed for a…is that what you wore last night?" he asked, kicking himself for the inane comment, but thinking how the colour suited her. It was also cut rather low for a…mage, causing his thoughts to wander down some very un-Templar-like paths. Again.

"It's rather…" He forced his eyes ahead. The road was uneven and he could not afford to trip while holding a small, vulnerable child…"…different from what you usually wear."

"I know…" she said. "Pretty isn't it?" she added. "Though I can't say the same for the person wearing it right now," she sighed. Lifting the skirt slightly, she grimaced. "I've completely ruined it of course, walking about in the icy mud." She turned an unhappy look on him. "It belonged to the Teyrna, apparently. I hope she doesn't intend to wear it again…"

"Well you look lovely, mud and all," he said before he could stop himself.

"Flatterer."

"Hardly." Clearing his throat self-consciously, he continued. "It was merely an observation," he told her matter-of-factly. "Even if…your hair looks as though a bird assaulted it…"

"That's because it was…" Seeing the look on his face, she rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh, long story too, but I think I'll leave the telling of that to your sister."

"My sister…" Ser Ryan muttered darkly under his breath.

After a while she glanced up at him tentatively. "So…" she began quietly. "Have you told your family yet? About the offer from the Knight Commander…not that it's any of my business, of course," she added hastily.

Ser Ryan shook his head. "I have yet to decide," he told her, drawing the child closer for warmth. He looked down on the muddy head of hair. It could have been anyone's child; there was nothing particularly distinctive about it…not that he could imagine any child this age looking anything but like a baby. He had no idea what his nieces had looked like at this age so he had no reference for comparison. Older, they were accurate likenesses of their mother, who was in turn a younger version of _her _mother, wondering what the creature in his arms would look like in a few years…if it survived life at the Tower.

He sighed. The child looked well-fed and cared for despite the pervasive miasma of soiled wrappings; a smell far more bearable than the stench of darkspawn, or even of the Tower itself…

"When I do, I will speak to them," he told Alyce. "There seems little point in worrying my family in the meantime."

"Hm…" she murmured, giving a speculative stare. "Undecided? I guess you aren't the man of action I thought you were…"

Frowning himself, he glared at her. "Criticism, Enchanter Amell?"

"No, no. It was merely an observation," she told him simply, smiling to herself at the formal address. "Why?" she tossed him an adorably impish look, which he resolutely ignored. "Were you hoping for a more exciting character description?" she asked, batting her eyelashes at him. "Ser Ryan…'My Hero'? Beh…don't think for a moment that I've forgotten how our first outing into the great wide world of Ferelden turned out."

His eyebrows rose at that. "Saving a Teyrnir?" He asked. "Fighting the Blight? All good things, I thought."

"I am really going to thump you," she threatened him. "I don't care whether you're holding a baby or not…coochie coochie…Urk! Why is it doing that?"

He sighed. "Doing what?"

"It keeps pointing at me. Make it stop."

"Doesn't 'it' have a name?" Ser Ryan asked. "Do you intend to call it 'It' for the rest of its life?"

Alyce screwed up her face, putting some distance between the two of them and herself. The smell was beginning to get to her. It was like travelling with a two-legged chamber pot. On the other hand, she probably didn't smell any better, having had to sleep in her evening dress, walked through mud and who knew what else overnight. Ser Ryan did not seem to notice, or else he was too polite to point out that she probably needed a bath. As for a name…She looked over at the creature in Ser Ryan's arms. It looked back. _This thing has the soul of an old god…?_ It pointed to her again. _What is _with_ that…?_

"Greagoir," she said abruptly, plucking a name randomly out of her head. Ser Ryan choked.

"You can't be serious!" he said hoarsely, not wanting to think how _that _would go down at the Tower…Clearly, she had not considered what sort of questions the sudden appearance of a child named after the Knight Commander would raise.

"It's a perfectly good name," Alyce said obstinately. "Besides," she added a frown. "It suits him. He keeps watching me. It's kind of creepy actually."

"Cottage…" Ser Ryan pointed out, relieved to be in sight of his home. If they had been further away, he would have been forced to defend his old Knight Commander…or the child. He had been about to suggest 'John' or 'William'. Something _safe _and commonplace, but by the set of Alyce's jaw, he knew that now she had proposed the name, it had already been set firmly in her mind. And then a look of pure evil crossed her features.

Turning to him she smirked. "If you don't like it, I could always call him 'Ryan'…" she sang. "Considering how long you've been out of the Order, he could even be yours…Ooh…!" He could almost _see _the lamp flashing above her head…

"No," he told her firmly.

"Aww…"

"_No._"

"You're just no fun."

And so _Greagoir, _it was…

-oo-

"And now we've lost Ser Ryan as well…" Dagna didn't so much sit down as abruptly allow her bottom to make contact with the stone bench. Her arms flopped by her sides, her legs she drew up onto the bench, hugging them. She looked so small and helpless Ser Hanleigh wanted to hug her too.

"I don't think we've lost him," Ser Hanleigh reassured her with a smile instead. "If anyone can find Enchanter Amell, it would be Ser Ryan."

"And who's going to find Ser Ryan?" Dagna asked.

"Well, Ser Ryan of course," Ser Hanleigh said with a wink. Dagna laughed. Comfortable silence fell between the two. Ser Hanleigh considered sitting next to her, but was not confident he could do so in full plate armour and not on such a narrow slab of stone. He wondered if he did, whether she might let him hold her hand. She might axe him, but that's where the plate came in. He wasn't afraid of her. He'd seen what she could do with that tiny hand axe of hers and had been impressed. If he were ever in a fight again, he'd have her beside him no question. No darkspawn or bandit could ever threaten his knees with her at his side…

"So…" he heard her say. He looked down into her twinkling blue eyes, feeling as though he were falling into them. "Are you going to sit down?" she asked. "You've been on your feet all morning."

Ser Hanleigh blushed. "I'm used to standing," he told her. "I can stand all day. It's a talent," he added with some pride. "My personal best is eighteen hours straight."

"Golly!" Dagna continued to twinkle at him.

Dog paddling in the ocean of those blue, blue eyes, Ser Hanleigh nodded happily. "Even Ser Ryan hasn't been able to stand that long, and he's pretty good at standing."

She smiled at him and he sunk, needing to take his helm off or cook inside his armour. It only made her smile wider. "Oh that's much better!" she exclaimed. "And…" she added. "You seem to think very highly of Ser Ryan. He's a good friend, huh?"

Ser Hanleigh nodded an affirmative. "Ser Ryan is kind to me," he told her. "Sometimes the men – the other Templars – tell me I'm not the sharpest sword on the rack, but Ryan…he reckons I'm smart in other ways. He says I have heart-sight and that makes me a good Templar; that I'm thoughtful, a good Andrastian and a good person. He says that's more important than being smart or clever."

Dagna gazed down at her feet, causing Ser Hanleigh to immediately apologise. "Oh, I didn't mean that smart people were bad…It's just that…"

"No, he's right," Dagna said with a sigh. "I've always prided myself on my cleverness; on being smarter than everyone," she told him. "But I know I haven't always been good, even when I knew I could have been; or should have been. Nor have I always been kind…"

"I can't imagine you not being kind," he told her firmly. Dagna laughed. She patted the space beside her on the seat. Deciding to accept the invitation, Ser Hanleigh gingerly lowered himself onto the stone, allowing his weight to rest bit by bit. When everything had settled, he sighed with relief, allowing himself to relax a little; the leather padding beneath the plate wheezing slightly in response.

"You know," Dagna began thoughtfully, her head lilting to the side. "I think we're perfect for each other."

"Are we?" Ser Hanleigh asked, blushing so hard it felt as though his entire head was roasting from the inside out. Dagna did not seem to notice, swinging her legs off the edge of the stone seat.

She nodded. "I'm smart enough for the both of us," she told him matter-of-factly. "And you're kind enough for me as well. Together," she dimpled at him, "we make one perfect person. Don't you agree?"

Ser Hanleigh sat rock-still. He didn't know quite what to say to that, but he felt it was alright, because he was happy enough for her to talk for him too. And she did.

"Is it alright if I hold your hand?" she asked him. He nodded. And so she did.

-oo-


	53. Mildred Remembers

-oo-

**Chapter 53 – Mildred Remembers**

Aidan closed the door behind him quietly, leaning briefly on the cool wood while he attempted to slow the pounding of his heart. Removing a handkerchief from a pocket, he dabbed at his ears, just in case they had begun to bleed. He wasn't about to forget _that_ lecture any time soon. When the door rattled at his back, he stepped hurriedly to the side. Fergus emerged, looking drained of colour and just as harried as Aidan felt. The two brothers exchanged mutual, despondent glances; Aidan handing the handkerchief to his brother who used it to mop his forehead.

The door opened again, Fergus jumping in surprise at the appearance of their father. The Teyrn blinked wide-eyed at his sons. He paused, raising a finger to his lips, half-listening for sounds beyond the closed door. Satisfied all was quiet, the old Teyrn grasped a sleeve in each hand, leading both men away. The trip was a short one; to the Teyrn's study just along the short corridor. He in turn closed the door behind him, once all three men were securely inside. He gestured at his eldest; Fergus obediently heading to the sideboard and the half-full carafe of brandy and waiting tumblers.

Meanwhile, Aidan had thrown himself into a high-backed chair, resting his head in his hands with a loud groan. He found the top of his head rapped by a set of rather bony knuckles. He looked up to find his father's stern, disapproving face staring down at him.

"I wouldn't relax if I were you, Pup," he warned. "You are _far_ from safe in _here__…_"

"Is there anywhere in Thedas where I could be?" Aidan asked, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice. He already knew the answer.

His brother came to his rescue, handing both his father and younger brother a tumbler each. The Teyrn accepted his with a grim smile, raising his share in a brief toast.

"To your mother!" he proposed.

"Mother…" Aidan repeated unenthusiastically.

"To Mummy!" Fergus said at the same time with vigour.

Aidan grimaced at his older brother. "'Mummy'?" he echoed with distaste.

Fergus frowned. "She's always been 'Mummy' to me," he explained. Aidan shrugged, downing the brandy in a single gulp and choking as a result.

"Oh Maker, that's awful…"

"It's the third best we have, Pup," his father explained coolly. "There _is_ a shortage of most essentials in this country, if you haven't noticed."

Aidan slumped, chastened yet again by one of his parents. He could see a lifetime ahead (at least five years or so, if he was lucky) of forced _good__ behaviour_…or at least until a grandchild appeared to distract the Teyrna from disciplining her own two children. His gaze inevitably went to his older brother. _Yeah,__ Fergus__ had__ better__ get __on __with__ that__ one__…_

"Why are you looking at _me?_" Fergus demanded. Aidan shrugged, contemplating his empty glass. Of of the two of them, his brother was the most promising candidate for continuing the line, especially since after this morning's lecture, it would take _him_ ages before his new-found fear of women would abate and he'd want to go near _any_thing in a skirt…

Twenty, forty-eight hours at _least_…

Fergus would have less, agreeing to at least meet with his prospective Rivaini bride as soon as possible. Nothing was set in stone yet; the invitations not written, the place settings ordered, or names picked out for their children, but it seemed his brother had resigned himself to making an effort. Considering how his brother's last match had gone, Aidan couldn't forsee any problems. Fergus was innately amenable. Put a pretty girl in front of him, make her smile at him and he was smitten. On the other hand, Morwenna Jones had set a rather high standard, the only thing working against Fergus continuing along that path being the fact that she was actually not particularly interested in him.

The Teyrna of course, _adored_ the woman, admiring her even more for her devotion to her deceased husband.

As for the subject of Alyce…

Aidan reflected on his mother's offer, conceding that it was probably the best option. On the whole, he thought he got off rather lightly, trying not to look at his father and thanking whatever lucky star he had been born under that his mother had been quite happy to handle the situation herself instead of escalating the issue to the Teyrn. It was a bit of a clever strategy, Aidan thought sourly…so their father could remain their 'friend', but Aidan had known both his parents long enough not to be fooled, remembering how the Teyrn had remained a silent observer throughout, ready to step in and put his foot down. He wondered whether his mother already knew that he had been…_briefed_ beforehand…

Probably. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland were not the most powerful nobles in the country for nothing…

A hand appeared before him, holding the near empty carafe. "I'm sure you'll recover in no time," his father told him, emptying the last of the brandy into his tumbler. "Nor will you be the first nobleman's son to be sent to the Free Marches for 'education'."

"Just try not to be too expensive," Fergus quipped, earning himself a reproving look from the Teyrn.

"I intend to send all my chits to you, in any case," Aidan told his older sibling sourly.

"Except that you'll be earning your own way, won't you Pup?" the Teyrn intervened before the two could come to blows. "Honestly and _legally._"

"Huh," Fergus was undaunted, courtesy of the brandy. "If there is _anyone_ who could make piracy legal, it would be my little brother."

"And fun too…" Aidan responded. "Where would I get those frilly-necked shirts by the way, big brother? I'm sure you would know."

The Teyrn sighed. "Now, boys…" he began.

"How should I know? You're the sartorial _expert_ in this family," Fergus snorted irritably.

"I just thought you'd know, seeing as how much of a gir…"

"_Don't__ make __me __fetch __your __mother!"_ the Teyrn exclaimed, stepping in between the two men. Bryce Cousland rolled his eyes, exasperated. "One would think we were dealing with children and not grown men. Needless to say, I am disappointed. For generations, we Couslands have ruled these lands with temperance and wisdom. It is both our duty and our _obligation_ to ensure that continuity…"

"Sorry, sorry, I think I'm late for an appointment…" Fergus said suddenly at the same time as Aidan sprang to his feet.

"Oh yes, _that_ appointment," Aidan corroborated, bustling his brother towards the door. "You promised you wouldn't be late too." He turned to his father with wide, earnest eyes. "Meeting with very important people."

"Important, yes," Fergus agreed, backing towards the door. "Can't keep important people waiting!"

"No Ser!"

The two men backed out of the room so fast, their feet left a smoking trail on the rug. Bryce Cousland watched the shuddering door a short while, slammed on their exit. He then returned to the sideboard, unlocking one of the lower compartments with a key. Removing a slender bottle, he checked the label before beginning to work at the wax and cork with the very clever device his wife had found for him the last time the two had visited Orlais together. Unstoppered, he poured out not one but two shots.

A few moments later the door opened to the soft rustle of fabric and the familiar scent of Andraste's Grace. Bryce turned, holding out a snifter of finely cut Orzammar crystal.

"Our boys are coming along nicely, don't you think?" he asked his wife.

The Teyrna smiled, "By the speed both were travelling," she said wryly. "I take it you used Cousland Speech number five?"

"The very one," Bryce Cousland replied, raising his glass to toast his wife once more. "I shall be quite sad when either of those two realise we only use it to make them do what we want them to do."

Eleanor laughed softly. "It's lasted long enough. Brother Aldous would have spent all his time lecturing empty air otherwise…" She spotted the opened bottle on the sideboard and crossed the room for a closer look. "I remember this," she said, her expression melancholy. "Part of Oriana's wedding gift was it not?" The Teyrn nodded silently, stepping up and curling an arm around his wife's shoulders. Eleanor Cousland sighed, leaning into her husband's side.

"We are very fortunate both our sons are so…resilient," she murmured. As her youngest had done, Eleanor drained her snifter in one single gulp, though in her case was far too ladylike and the Antivan cognac too fine for her to fall into a fit of inelegant coughing. She instead held out the glass for a refill. "As for the rest…" she began, pausing in thought.

"The rest…?" Bryce prompted.

The smile she managed was somewhat wistful. "We shall see…" she told him.

-oo-

"Right…right…so you'll be alright here?" Alyce asked him for…he had lost count.

"We'll be fine, Amell," Ser Ryan assured her, using the slightly more formal address for emphasis.

"And…why does he keep staring at me? Is there something wrong? Should we fetch a healer?" she said, peering worriedly at Ser Ryan's load.

Ser Ryan sighed. "Morwenna said he appeared healthy and hale and no more unusual than most children his age," he reminded her. "Staring is apparently customary."

"Yes, but he does it in a weird way…look! He just did it again! Did you see? Did you?"

Ser Ryan gave her a _look_ of his own_._ "Have you not any experience with very young children, Alyce?" he asked, frowning. "You've assisted women in their confinement as I recall."

"That's different," Alyce informed him. "I just yank 'em out and give them to their mothers. It's not like I hang around taking notes afterwards…Now you won't let him eat anything weird, will you?" she asked abruptly.

Ser Ryan covered his face with his free hand. "_No,_ Enchanter. I will not."

"Because he likes to eat furniture, I've noticed," Alyce continued. "That can't be good for him."

"You ate furniture as a young child, I take it?" Ser Ryan asked her. "It explains much."

"You bar..." Realising she had been about to say a word a small child should not hear, Alyce instead waggled a finger threateningly at him. Perched in the crook of Ser Ryan's arm, Greagoir waggled a finger back at her. "Typical," she grumbled. "You men always stick together."

"Your aunt awaits, I'm sure," Ser Ryan reminded her. She made a face at him. Shaking out her skirt, Alyce gave them both one last, warning glare, then turned and marched through the garden towards her aunt's cottage. She resisted the urge to turn back to check to make sure Ser Ryan hadn't dropped Greagoir or fallen into a sinkhole or been attacked suddenly by a gang of rabid ravens because she read somewhere that they _ate_ babies...She was sure that Neria had handed over the god baby to her to make sure he survived at least until childhood, mostly intact. Odds of surviving Neria's wrath if something happened to Greagoir were slim. It would be bad enough when her elf-mage friend found out what he had been named…

Of course, Alyce was actually looking forward to _that__…_And she was in no way concerned for the child because she was getting attached to it. Nope. Not by any means.

"Babies are not cute…babies are not cute…" she muttered darkly under her breath, spotting Serenna a short distance away, waiting for her.

"You look lovely," Serenna commented, opening the door to the cottage and beckoning her inside.

"Oh, this old thing?" Alyce grimaced, thankful to Morwenna for letting her wash up a little before heading over to visit her aunt. Morwenna had even brushed out most of the mud so she could be presentable. Her aunt might not be able to see, but she would still _know._"It's just…"

"Is that you, Alyce?" her Aunt Mildred's voice demanded sharply from inside. "Why are you dressed so ridiculously? I'm not too sure which is worse;" she complained, "that scant bit of fabric and metal you mistakenly and persistently refer to as a 'robe' or what sounds like the sitting room curtains…"

Alyce chuckled, striding into the room to bestow an affectionate kiss to the top of her aunt's head.

"And was that a…_child_ I heard outside earlier?" Aunt Mildred asked suspiciously.

Alyce focussed on the stained and pitted wall behind her aunt's head, wondering whether she should break the news of her acquisition now or later..."Um…" she flannelled. "Cat…" she said finally. "There was a cat chasing a...and then it went up the tree and…fell…out…and…Yes Aunt Mildred. It was a baby."

"Do I need to ask how, who and why?" Aunt Mildred asked, pronouncing the 'wh' of her 'why' with a very prim puff of air.

"Nope," Alyce replied with no trace of grace whatsoever. "Ya don't."

"It seems the Little Green Satinalia Goose was very generous to you this year…" Aunt Mildred commented. She patted the bed beside her, reserving the right to demand answers later. After Alyce had seated herself, she extended her hand to Serenna. The elf stepped forward, placing a shallow oblong box into her employer's outstretched hands. "And this is merely coincidence," her aunt explained. "Nothing to do with the season. Something your mother wished you to have."

"My mother?" Alyce exclaimed, the box almost dropping between them as she startled midway through accepting it.

"Yes, your mother," Aunt Mildred told her testily. "I would have given it to you earlier, but I don't hold with sending valuable things cross-country and I had the Fade demon of a time trying to find it in any case."

The box was in her hands; an old thing, time-darkened and roughly made as though it had been merely something to use as a vessel; the only thing that had been around at the time, tied together with faded ribbon. Alyce carefully picked out the knot in the ribbon; the original colour preserved in the folds. It had been deep blue once, the same colour as the Forget-me-nots that flowered stubbornly outside the Tower's greenhouses every year. The lid resisted opening briefly, Alyce finding the moment somewhat spoiled by her having to pick at it with her dismally short fingernails. Whatever was inside rattled in a fragile way that warned her it might break if she shook too hard.

And then the lid came free with a soft sigh. Alyce peered inside, surprised to find the inside lined with dried flowers…the Forget-me-nots that the ribbon had reminded her of. The object inside was a strange thing; a carving of some kind of leaf in black wood worked with a silver material. When she tried to pick it up, she found a very sharp, long pin at its base…_some __kind__ of__ hairpin,_ she wondered?

She wasn't too sure what to say.

She supposed she should think of something, but Alyce had not known her mother. Few had spoken of her, unless it had been in a derogatory way and to insult her _oddness_ as a child.

"Um…" she managed eventually.

"Hmph," her aunt responded. "If I remember correctly, it's some kind of pin, for a cloak or some such thing…" Aunt Mildred explained. "A trifling thing," she added. "The only thing your mother had with her…"

Aunt Mildred exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. "Good woman, your mother," she told Alyce. "Stupidly brave of course, agreeing to be with your father...It was really the only thing I could fault her on. The family never forgave him because apparently there would never have been any question of _accepting_ her..."

"Forgave? What do you mean?" Alyce asked, her confusion causing her to stab her finger again with the cloak pin. "Because of the magic thing?"

Her aunt's smile twisted in bitterness and resentment. "The 'magic thing'," her aunt told her, "was merely the more acceptable complaint. The one they never spoke about was the 'Elf thing'."

"Ouch…" Alyce sucked on her finger. Just to be on the safe side, she returned the pin to its box, leaving it open on her lap. "So the rumours were true then?" she asked quietly. "My mother was an elf? And she died saving my father from Templars…Sacrificing herself so that they wouldn't take him back to the Tower?"

"Bollocks!" Aunt Mildred spat. "What kind of reading material have they been forcing down your throat at that Tower of yours?" she demanded. "I never heard such a ridiculous story…"

Alyce fixed her gaze on the opposite wall. She knew the kinds of 'material' her aunt referred to, but only in passing…and had no idea what they were actually like, having never read one or even _glanced_ at the illustrations or anything…"So erm…" she cleared her throat guiltily. "What really happened?"

"Well, I'd tell you if you didn't keep interrupting me, girl," Aunt Mildred sniffed.

"Yes Aunt Mil…"

"You're doing it again."

Alyce fell obediently silent, clasping her hands demurely in her lap. Her aunt sighed. "I suppose I'm at fault here," she said. "It was simply easier in my head to tell you what I wanted you to know. We Amells have an uncanny ability to survive by not telling the truth; or embroidering the facts so much the frill disguises the ugly pattern beneath…"

In her lap, Alyce's hands clenched impatiently, wishing her aunt would just get it over with and tell her she was some kind of dirty, illegitimate creature or something her parents found by the roadside or…Her knee began to jiggle of its own accord, finding her aunt's hand reaching out to give her leg a stinging slap.

"Of course never let it be said that an Amell lie has never come back to bite us in a place the sun never sees…" Aunt Mildred added, chuckling evilly. "Stupid _people__…_Your mother was _respectable,_ unlike our family…so many demmed skeletons in our closet, you'd think we had our own personal, family ossuary, which of course, we _do__…_Pah, just because we're of noble stock, we're expected to be snooty…And your father…" Aunt Mildred rolled her whitened eyes, throwing up her hands. "I loved my brother; good heart he had but a looser screw I'll never meet again. You take after him in that, girl, apart from his looks." She shook his head. "It's the jaw. You could crack a nut on it and he'd never flinch."

What followed was a hearty stream of cackling, ending abruptly when Aunt Mildred realised her niece was not laughing. Instead, Alyce's other knee began to jiggle, earning her another slap.

"Long and short of it, we Ferelden Amells stayed out of family politics for the most part, not being too close to the succession. Plenty of _spares_ in Kirkwall for that." Her aunt gave rather derogatory sniff, silently voicing her opinion on the subject of there being far too many of her family to disdain. "Spares enough to sacrifice one of their own, just for showing the signs…" Her aunt patted Alyce's knee. "That's a story for another day. Don't think I have enough patience right now to tell that one…No, the family didn't like my brother's choice of bride, though I never had a problem with it. The only time Revvy showed any sense was in choosing your mother."

"But I thought my father was a Circle mage…" Alyce said, frowning. "Where did the magic come from…?"

"You interrupting me again?"

"You paused!" Alyce protested.

"I was inhaling. Since when have I not been able to breathe, girl?"

"Was he or wasn't he?" Alyce demanded.

"Bah. Impatient youth…" her aunt complained. "But yes, he _was__…_Only quite late in life. It's one of the reasons why we stayed _here_ and not amongst those _other_ Amells. Well that and the fun we had popping Orlesian heads back in the day…" Her aunt cackled again. "Your mother was no slouch with those fireballs either, tell you what…" Her aunt paused deliberately, waiting for this slip of information to sink in and waiting for the reaction.

When it came, it was disappointing.

"Guh…?" Alyce hiccupped.

Aunt Mildred turned to Alyce, her expression unimpressed. "That the best you can do?"

"Guh…" Alyce repeated. "Hang on," she added, Ser Ryan's words coming back to her. "All children of mages belong to the Chantry," she recited. "How did they get away with…" And then she realised how she came to be here and why neither parent was alive to tell her this story themselves. "They fled the Circle, didn't they?" she asked quietly.

"Aye, child," Mildred admitted. "My brother and your mother managed to stay hidden long enough for you to be born and delivered to me for safekeeping." She gave a snort full of derision and bitterness. "The Circle was polite enough to inform me of my brother's death in _writing__…_Though they never bothered to let the Alienage and your mother's family know…And you would have been safe if that tart from the Greenfell Arms hadn't blabbered…I promised Revin I'd keep you safe. Promised them both. I'll always feel sorry for failing you child…"

Alyce sighed. "Except you didn't fail me, Aunt Mildred," she told her aunt, poking the elderly woman in the side reassuringly. "I learned some pretty useful things at the Tower. Food was terrible of course, but there's no such thing as a perfect life, as you used to tell me."

"Pah…" Her aunt waved a hand at her, the air of grief dissipating. "Don't tell me you _enjoyed_ yourself."

Alyce thought of Neria and Niall and Senior Enchanter Torrin. She even thought about Jowan; his attempt to flee with that initiate seeming not so awful now…And there was Dagna and so many others. If she had remained here, with her aunt, would she have been as useful during the Blight? Or would she have perished along with so many others? She might never have met any of these people; never had the option to freeze first and ask questions later and there was nothing more enjoyable than burning an ogre to cinders…or having the authority to mock mages because you were better at paralysis glyphs than they were…

"It's been…interesting…" Alyce told her aunt, because she didn't think Aunt Mildred needed to know about Uldred or the Abom-Wynne-ation or what she'd been doing since her Harrowing...

"It'll get more interesting if you end up with that Templar outside…" her aunt told her. Alyce dropped her head into her hands. _Why__ does__ everyone__ keep__ saying __that__…__?_ Maybe she should copy notices and nail them to every tree in Ferelden, so the rest of the country could comment on her non-existent _romance_ with an _ex-_Templar…soon to be Knight Commander…? It was quite possible that there were _cows_ in an obscure barn somewhere in the Frostbacks that didn't know or have a chance to voice their opinion. She'd _hate_ for anyone to miss out…

"Though I've been enjoying his company…" Her aunt said suddenly.

"Company?" Alyce blinked.

"Good with his hands, that one," her aunt smirked. Actually _smirked__…_"Nice voice too," she added, "for someone that keeps forgetting his _skirt__…_"

-oo-


	54. Decision

-oo-

**Chapter 54 – Decision**

Alyce paced; her head full to bursting. It was too late to retract her wish for an exciting life. _It__ was __just __a __joke__…__!_ She paused briefly to shake her fists at whatever higher being was out there to hear…_I__t wasn't__ supposed__ to __be__ taken __seriously!_ Whoever took her seriously? No one had taken her seriously before…

As she paced her hands returned occasionally to her ears; not that she was checking their shape or anything. She knew that round shape wouldn't spontaneously elongate into a point just because she suddenly found out she was half elf. Everyone knew that children from a human-elf union were invariably human in appearance.

She supposed it was similar for a mage-mage mix. The chance of offspring having magical abilities was predictably high…Alyce wondered how many children like herself existed. She could not imagine there were many in Ferelden or Orlais where the Chantry frowned on mages _reproducing_…because that would be gross and yucky…and it would make the Maker mad. Again. Maybe she should seek out other children of mages; form some kind of a club…? They could have a uniform and a secret handshake consisting of…_Oh__ now__ I'm __just __being __a __complete __idiot__…_A secret society of mages? That would be the fastest route to cocktail sausagehood. She might as well run through the streets of Denerim painted purple with a sign around her neck saying _The__ Grand__ Cleric__ is __a__ big__ fat__ cow__…_

On the other hand, she wasn't about to move to Tevinter any time soon. The Tevinters were sympathetic; _encouraging_ towards those of a magical inclination, but of all the countries making up Thedas, Tevinter had the worst reputation for their treatment of elves. Not to mention…too many damned _mages_...

So…half-elf and all mage…could she also be related somehow to Neria…? She banished the thought as mere wishful thinking.

_I'm going to kill that bloody elf the next time I see her…_

Where had Neria _gone_ anyway_?_ It would have been nice if her 'friend' had remained to at least see Greagoir settled in as well as answer a few pertinent and _important_ questions. In the end, Alyce had simply to accept that Neria was now beyond not only her reach but her influence (if she had any influence over her to begin with) and wish that wherever Neria was right now, she was safe and well.

And would return…

Movement on the bed brought Alyce's attention back to the more practical concern of Greagoir.

Returning to Cousland Castle had been as awkward and uncomfortable as she had expected; even more than introducing Gregoir to her Aunt Mildred. All her aunt had done was pronounce quite confidently that Greagoir was indeed 'a baby', reminding Alyce that if she mixed up one end with the other, she would only have herself to blame for the consequences. Her encounter with her aunt had been refreshingly sedate, however being at the castle was demonstrating how unprepared she was to deal with Neria's little gift. Morwenna had been able to assist a little; passing on some old things that had belonged to her daughters. As for Ser Ryan…he had escaped, citing his own duties as an excuse for not hanging around to help._ Responsible,__ dutiful__ bastard__…_

The castle staff were too curious for her comfort. She was well aware that the Couslands were not running a public inn and she had just brought back an uninvited guest…Senior Torrin's pending arrival also loomed like a dark cloud, heavily laden with cold, drenching, sarcastic rain. While she dearly needed her mentor's opinion, the thought of actually meeting him again with Greagoir in tow filled her with dread.

It meant that their return to the Tower of Magi would be set, along with introducing the god baby to the First Enchanter. She worried what Irving was going to do with Greagoir. Perform experiments on him? She wouldn't put it past the old fussbudget not to cage poor Greagoir in his office, to show to visitors like a stuffed iguana or an interesting pressing of an unusual herb.

Alyce began to pace again.

And then…would he remain in human form forever? What did an old god _look_ like? Did anyone know? A dragon, really? What if there was an alternative form? Was a dragon the _default_ manifestation…? What if it was a fish or a nug…or a monkey? _Monkey __magic__…__ah __hah, __hah,__ hah__…_It was ridiculous, but _would_ Greagoir revert at some stage to any of these? Would Irving decide that they were placing the Tower at risk and…dispose of him…?

Alyce leant over the bed, feeling ill with anxiety. Panicking slightly she seized her pack to remove the bundle of notes, her fingers stinging before she could remember to dispel the hexes protecting them. Settling herself on the rug, she began poring over Niall's precise hand, looking for clues; any clues or any mention of an old god, but there were none. Only the possession ritual was mentioned.

So…did that mean there was a companion book of spells somewhere; an enchanted appendix; a mystical second volume? For that matter, what did Flemeth need an old god _for_? To possess so she could use its powers to become even more formidable than she was?

It was a horrifying thought...

When a knock sounded on the door, Alyce squealed; ejecting sheets of parchment into the air around her. She did not answer, staring anxiously at the door while her imagination conjured images of a horde of Templars arrived to seize the god child to take him to the Divine in Val Royeaux or somewhere _worse_. It occurred to her that the Grey Wardens might take an interest in Greagoir too…

_Neria__…_she thought, her insides twisting into tighter knots. _What__ have__ you__ done?__ This__ is __too __great__ a__ responsibility__…_Her stomach feeling as though an entire hive of bees had taken up residence in it, Alyce trained her eyes on the closed door; reaching behind for her mage staff.

The knock sounded again. On the bed Greagoir began to stir, making that weird noise that sounded like an annoyed cat stuck in a tree. Alyce rose slowly to her feet. _I'm__ being__ stupid__…_she told herself. _I'm __in__ a__ safe__ place,__ surrounded__ by__ soldiers__…_And then the contrary part of her whispered into her brain that the Couslands would not risk their standing with the Chantry to protect one child…Nor could they afford to side with one mage against anyone wishing to claim Greagoir: the Chantry…the Circle…the Grey Wardens. Taking that into consideration, she was far from safe here.

Whoever it was knocked yet again. This time, Alyce called out, "Who is it?" which, if she had been thinking calmly, would have been the logical thing to do in the first place.

"Are you decent, Enchanter Amell?"

The sound of Ser Hanleigh's muffled voice caused Alyce's knees to buckle in relief. Leaning on her staff, she took a few calming breaths before she felt up to opening the door. When she did, Ser Hanleigh's beaming, unhelmed face felt like a fresh breeze, shifting some of her darker, unpleasant thoughts back to their rightful corners.

"I brought custard," he informed her proudly, holding up a large wooden bowl of pale yellow wobbliness for her inspection. Her still-worried expression appeared to register and his smile slipped.

"Are you well, Enchanter Amell?" he asked.

Alyce found herself giggling at Ser Hanleigh's unintentional rhyme. When she couldn't stop, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Ser Hanleigh cocked his head at her. "Mistress Amell?" he enquired, which sent Alyce into another bout of slightly hysterical laughter.

He held a wooden bowl towards her. "Babies love custard?" he asked uncertainly, not sure how to deal with Alyce's unabating glee, which didn't sound particularly gleeful at all.

"Ooh," he asked, suddenly wide-eyed. "You aren't turning abomination, are you Enchanter Amell? I'd hate to have to smite you…Dagna would have my peanuts if I did…" Despite expressing reluctance at this very thing, Alyce saw Ser Hanleigh's right arm move to his sword hilt. It was enough of a jolt to force her to claw back some of her self-control.

"I'm…not," Alyce wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. "…Abomination," she promised. "But thank you Ser Hanleigh. I thought it was…I'm a little tired," she told him with a grimace, thinking it probably wouldn't be a good idea to tell a Templar what was _really_ going on in her head. Even if that Templar was as good-hearted and well-intentioned as Ser Hanleigh. "Will you come in?"

By now Greagoir had rolled himself upright, mewling unhappily and loudly. Ser Hanleigh chewed on his bottom lip, observing Greagoir with alarm. "I can't come in," he whispered.

_Eh?_ Alyce peered at him. It was actually nice to see Ser Hanleigh without his helm for a change. "Greagoir's just a baby, Ser Hanleigh," she reassured him, interpreting his reluctance to enter as a fear of harming Greagoir in some way. "I think you're safe." _Maybe__…_

"Oh, it's not that, Enchanter Amell…!" Ser Hanleigh waved his free hand in denial. "This is…I was raised a gentleman, ma'am. I can't come into a lady's…private…thing."

"Thing?" Alyce repeated, clutching her mage staff closer.

Ser Hanleigh leaned in, lowering his voice as though saying the word out loud might cause any impressionable individuals nearby to become morally tainted. "Boodwah…" Ser Hanleigh told her, barely audible.

Alyce's mouth curled into a large 'O' shape. _Since__ when __have__ Templars __been__ this__ considerate?_ Still…she told herself. Ser Hanleigh. Dagna…_I__ must__ remember__ to __have__ a __bit__ of__ a__ 'chat'__ with__ that __girl__ later__…__or__ sooner__…_

"I see…" Alyce mimicked the volume of his voice. She collected the custard – to his relief – watching him back away a couple of steps before saluting her in the usual way. He straightened and turned to go, pausing mid-step with one foot suspended in the air.

"Ah…I almost forgot, Mistress Amell…" he began, almost sending Alyce into another fit of chuckles by referring to her as 'Mistress'. "The Senior Enchanter has returned earlier than expected," he told her. "He's um…"

"Right here, actually," a voice said to the far left of the Templar.

Alyce redirected her gaze down the hall, comforted by the arrival of her mentor and yet acutely apprehensive at the sight of him.

"I understand," Torrin began, approaching. "You've been rather _busy_ in my absence, Alyce…" Tapping his chin with a thoughtful finger, he appeared to be listening intently to Greagoir crying lustily behind her. No one could miss it really. In fact, Alyce was quite sure that there were people in Amaranthine cellars who were plugging their ears with wadding as Torrin spoke.

He added a beady, speculative stare that turned the bees in her stomach to worms…

"_Very _busy it seems…"

-oo-

_Hm…_

Alyce could hear the sound in her head, though the Senior Enchanter had yet to vocalise any of his thoughts. He had looked deep into Greagoir's eyes, murmured several inaudible incantations...He'd _flourished_ and gesticulated; leading Alyce to wonder whether Torrin was doing all of this merely for effect and not for any particular, practical purpose. When he stepped back finally, Alyce stepped forward, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder looking down at the chubby-cheeked creature sandwiched between two pillows.

The god baby known as Greagoir returned their gazes calmly; Ser Hanleigh's custard being an instant success at halting the ear-piercing screams he'd entertained them with earlier. On the downside, most of the custard had ended up being applied externally. On the upside, Bonnie's old pink cardigan did actually seem to suit him.

Eventually, Torrin sighed.

"Did the Warden Commander _say_ how much information about this creature she passed onto the First Enchanter?" he asked, Alyce needing to suppress her annoyance at Greagoir being referred to as a 'creature'. It didn't matter that _she_ referred to the god baby as a 'creature' or a 'thing'. It was different. Torrin had known Greagoir less than an hour…whereas _she__…_

"No, Senior Torrin."

Her mentor turned to her. "There's no need for snarkiness with me, young woman," Torrin observed her with a crook of an eyebrow.

"I wasn't…"

"This certainly carves a most interesting facet into the gem that was the Grey Wardens' party," Torrin mused, flicking the end of his beard with an idle finger, abruptly and skilfully claiming control of the conversation. "Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately there are few people – if any – in Thedas familiar enough with lesser deities to shed any light on this situation. Really, Alyce," he turned to her in a bored voice, "I have heard of 'playing god', but this really goes beyond anything…"

"Ur hur, hur…" The corners of Alyce's mouth turned down nervously, matching her mirthless laugh.

Torrin shook his head. For the first time since Alyce had known him he looked unsure, continuing to observe little Greagoir for more clues, much as she had done so many times since she had acquired him.

"And the Warden Commander left no other explanation?" Torrin asked as well. Alyce's frown deepened, wondering whether the Senior Enchanter's insistence on referring to Neria as the 'Warden Commander' was significant. "Did she know why creating a child with the soul of an old god was so vital?" he added to his growing list of questions.

Alyce shrugged. "To possess?" she suggested weakly. Torrin considered this. He shook his head.

"This child has a soul as ancient as time itself, yet he is _mortal,_ Alyce," he said quietly. "Flemeth creating a _female_ child to extend her existence makes _sense._ By having daughters, she retains control of her progeny; the _process._ I wonder whether the sex of this child was mere coincidence; unplanned and unwanted or simply…unimportant."

"If it's the latter?" Alyce wondered out loud.

"Then I am truly confounded," Torrin sighed. To Alyce's surprise, he reached out and tweaked the end of Greagoir's nose. "What I do know however," he added grimly. "Is that the sooner we deliver this creature-child to Irving's care, the better."

"No."

Torrin turned to her in astonishment. "No?" he repeated.

"Neria left Greagoir to _my_ care," she explained. "She might have consulted the First Enchanter, but she did not commit him to Irving. I am…" she took a deep breath, "responsible for him."

"Feeling clucky are we?" Torrin enquired.

Alyce's eyes grew wide, appalled at this suggestion. "_No__…__!_" she exclaimed, unable to think of a good argument in her defence. "That's just not…_No__…__!_"

"Mm…" Torrin replied noncommittally, returning to his study of the god baby. "Just checking."

Folding her arms, Alyce waited for more abuse. It arrived as she expected. "Oh and speaking of clucky," the Senior Enchanter added far too smoothly for her twanging nerves. "Ser Ryan will be accompanying us to the Tower. I hope you don't object?"

"Object? Why should I object?' she said too quickly.

"I can't imagine why…" Torrin looked down his nose at her. "But again…simply checking…Or should I have said…" he gazed thoughtfully into the space above Greagoir's fuzzy round head. "Plucky…to describe our intrepid soldier-Templar?"

"Plucky, clucky…is there a point to this?" Alyce asked, her head spinning anew.

"None, ducky," Torrin told her, turning away, not even a trace of irony or humour appearing anywhere near his person. He made it as far as the door before he turned back. "Lucky, eh? We leave tomorrow by the way. If you feel the need to make farewells, best do it by this evening."

With that the Senior Enchanter stepped from the room, leaving Alyce gaping like an open wound. She sank onto the bed; Greagoir immediately crawling over the pillows to her. He sunk his two teeth into her arm affectionately, soaking it with custardy drool. She drew him into her lap, wrapping her arms about him for comfort.

Ser Ryan was to accompany them to the Tower?

_I__ guess__ he's__ made __his__ decision__ then__…_she thought, chiding herself for letting it matter to her more than it should. Especially if it meant that by being Knight Commander her life was about to get _so_ much worse.

-oo-

_Two__ crossed__ spears__…__a __single,__ green __tear drop_…Ser Ryan smoothed the folds of the tabard on its stand, the after-image of Highever's heraldic device remaining long in his sight after he had turned away. For someone who had lived most of his life under the very martial and very definite symbol of the burning sword of Andraste, the image of the tear drop was far too passive. Even if in very recent times it had gained more meaning and the spears retained their right to intimidate.

Despite its softer appearance, the uniform of the Teyrn's personal guard was not to be worn lightly - quite apart from the fact that it consisted of more plate and less mail and leather than the usual Highever soldier's uniform and was heavier as a result – and so Ser Ryan didn't think it appropriate travel garb. _This_ from someone who had worn heavy plate armour as easily and as comfortably as his own skin…_That_ was stored in the armoury at the Tower of Magi…The two sets of armour; Highever and Chantry at almost opposite ends of the country symbolising his own position as _currently__ nowhere __in__ particular_.

He fully intended to resolve this issue soon.

Ser Ryan had finished fastening his travel cloak when he detected the unmistakeable absence of sound at the door. He glanced over his shoulder, turning to salute his visitor.

Aidan Cousland leant against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. The young lord was the picture of ease, but Ser Ryan was not fooled. There was a tense set to Aidan's shoulders, along with a cluster of wrinkles between his blue eyes that were trying their best to appear invisible.

"So…" Cousland began, gaze boring into Ser Ryan's own. "I heard…"

Ser Ryan smiled, reaching for the two, slender-bladed swords that had seen him through to the end of the Blight. He fully intended to travel with his own arms and armour, remaining _neutral_…

"I suppose…" Cousland continued, contemplating the floor. "That I should be happy for you…but you know me. I'm going to say I'm not."

"I understand you will be leaving for a journey of your own," Ser Ryan commented, reaching for his pack. "Should I congratulate you my lord?"

"Why bother?" Aidan screwed up his face. "It's not like I've won some kind of special trophy…I'll be accompanying Fergus to Rivain first, to hold up the scorecards when he meets the future Mrs Fergus…and then…who knows? Looking forward to getting arrested for looking at another nobleman funny and thrown into some flea-infested pit in the middle of Maker knows where while my family redecorate my room in my absence for my replacement…"

Ser Ryan chuckled at the melodramatic description. He doubted Aidan Cousland would fail to out-charm any law enforcer should he ever fall foul of them.

"You can always change your mind," Cousland said suddenly, a slight pleading tone to his voice. "And come with me. I could do with the company and I'm sure Fergus would _love__…_"

"My path has been decided," Ser Ryan told him gently.

"You know," the wrinkles on Aidan's forehead multiplied. "What part of 'change your mind' haven't you grasped there?"

"What part of _my_ sentence have you failed to understand, my lord?" Ser Ryan shot back.

"Stubborn bastard."

Ser Ryan inclined his head politely.

"And you're going to go?" Aidan persisted, like a small child asking for sweets long after he had been told 'no'. "Just like that?"

"'Like that'?" Ser Ryan adjusted his travel cloak around his pack. "Is there an alternative method?" From afar, Ser Ex-Templar-Ex-Highever Guard resembled a two-legged, hairy tortoise. Up close, Aidan Cousland thought he looked like a two-legged, hairy deserter…being sarcastic at him. After all this time suddenly the man develops a sense of humour? And why was Ser Ex looking at him like an indulgent uncle anyway? Any minute now, Aidan expected Ser Ryan to ruffle his hair affectionately or pass him a humbug from a parchment bag. So when the older man thumped him on the shoulder, Aidan grimaced at the _predictability_ of the gesture.

"I know you'll do well, my lord," Ser Ryan included in his parting speech, causing Cousland to roll his eyes.

"And I'll make everyone proud…" Aidan sighed. "Don't forget that one. You'll be telling me to make sure I wear my stomach-warmer when I go out in chilly weather next."

Ser Ryan's eyebrow rose. "Actually, I was thinking more in terms of outerwear," he said, the corner of his mouth barely twitching. "However, each to their own."

Aidan had just been about to strike back with a glib comment of his own, but he was interrupted mid-thought by the arrival of one of the Templars; the one who thought he could make himself invisible by removing his helm…

"Um…Ser Anwyn and the Senior Enchanter have already left for the south gate, Ser Ryan," Ser Hanleigh informed them both with a bow.

"Thank you Ser Hanleigh," Ryan smiled. He stepped towards the door, holding out his hand. Aidan looked at it briefly and stuffed his thumbs into his belt, refusing to meet Ser Ryan's eyes because he knew the man would be laughing at him. "And thank you, Lord Aidan…"

"Yeah, yeah," Aidan shuffled backwards. "Knowing me has been both a pleasure and an honour, I'm sure."

"Yes it has," Ser Ryan told him sincerely. "And I do hope that we will meet again."

_Yeah__…_Aidan watched his lieutenant walk away. _I__ doubt__ it__…_

-oo-


	55. Going Home

**-oo-  
**

**Chapter ****55**** – ****Going ****Home**

Alyce prodded a bit of boot cautiously. She did not turn at the sound Senior Torrin made behind her.

"Far be it for me to _comment,_ my dear…" he began, gallantly pausing to allow her to contradict him. However, as she merely continued to scowl at the pile of _bandit,_ Torrin continued, "Do you think this was a tad…overdone, perhaps?"

"No," was the short answer. The scowl deepened.

Senior Enchanter Torrin sighed to himself, not bothering to wonder what was going on in that unruly head of hers. His dark eyes travelled over the hapless bandits to return to his former apprentice. He did however, have to admit that Amell was becoming more creative with her magic, though he doubted the bandits she'd branded with a tolerable rendering of the burning Sword of Andraste would appreciate her artistry when they awoke.

The exact _placement_ of her brands might land these poor fellows in more hot water in the future; possibly boiling; on second thoughts not water, but oil…What was the Chantry's preferred punishment for defiling the symbol of Andraste? A public flaying...a day in the stocks? _Oh__ well__…__they__ did __draw __their __swords __first__…_Really, anyone foolish enough to attempt to waylay two mages and three large, well-armoured men probably needed to be removed from polite society…It was a mercy, really, especially since it might be a kinder fate than a short trip and a sharp drop at the end of a noose; which was the standard punishment for banditry in these parts.

Giving the nearest unconscious bandit one final prod with the heel of her mage staff, Alyce turned away, nearly colliding with Ser Anwyn in her progress. The elderly Templar hastily raised his hands; showing that he was no threat; her deepening scowl producing dark canyons across her dirt-smudged face nevertheless. Ser Anwyn looked towards the Senior Enchanter, who offered a helpless shrug and a quick eye-roll. The Templar stepped aside, observing the young mage stump unhappily across the littered clearing towards the dwarf and Ser Hanleigh. He had honestly never known such a cheerless individual before…and that was counting some Tranquil he had come to befriend over the years.

To his surprise Amell veered from her supposed target at the last moment, heading towards a road marker instead. She then proceeded to sit on it, spidery legs curling underneath, as the stone marker was only a foot or so tall. Resting her chin on her arms made the picture complete; her gaze searing the frozen ground into muddy puddles around her feet.

On the other side of Ser Hanleigh's tiny group Anwyn noted, sat another figure, diligently sharpening a sword already capable of slicing dust motes from the air.

Ser Ryan conscientiously ignoring everyone else around him was a bit too obvious. It was as if the Templar-Guardsman found being in the company of people he had known for years deeply uncomfortable, preferring to be elsewhere. It was, Ser Anwyn thought, both unexpected and strange, exchanging a glance with Torrin that spoke more than words could express.

The two men stood for a while contemplating the bandits in deep thought.

"What do you propose we do with them?" Ser Anwyn asked, breaking the discomfiting silence between them.

"Return their clothes?" Torrin suggested. "Defrost them? Though not necessarily in that order."

Ser Anwyn rubbed at his temples tiredly. Their party was too far from Highever to alert the authorities. Leaving them here however would be an act of cruelty that not even these disreputable criminals deserved.

"Rather accurately drawn, I thought…" Torrin commented appreciatively. "One would think she's been practising…"

"Maker forbid." Ser Anwyn hoped the incident would not be repeated. Having highwaymen branded with the Holy Sword of Andraste on their…_privates_ was not something he would encourage. Neither from a humane perspective, nor one belonging to an experienced member of the Holy Order.

"Can they be removed?" Ser Anwyn felt he should ask, if only on behalf of these poor, unconscious sods…

Senior Torrin turned to him with a single raised eyebrow. "You don't think the position of Amell's brand might be convenient for our academically-challenged friends here?"

"No," Anwyn replied with growing horror, the days to his retirement seeming to stretch far too long ahead of him. "I don't."

"Well…" Torrin shrugged again. "We shall leave judgement to the victims of Amell's…doodling…and…_rouse_ them from their slumber…"

Ser Anwyn cringed. He should know Torrin better by now, but the man always managed to catch him unawares. The Senior Enchanter may have his connection to the Fade firmly established, but his delivery of devastating commentary was far too Tranquil-like for his peace of mind. He pitied those at the Tower…and he pitied these bandits who had been stupid enough to strike first and ask questions later. Hand firmly on the hilt of his longsword because it was comforting – and here he refused to acknowledge the pun – he stood back as Torrin began casting his rejuvenation spells…

-oo-

The weathered edges of the stone road marker dug uncomfortably into her bottom. As the screams of the waking highwaymen carried across the clearing, Alyce wrinkled her nose. _Idiots__…__what __did __you __expect? __Shoot __an __arrow __at __me__…__I'm__ going __to __hurl __a __lightning __bolt __at __you__…_

She might have conveniently forgotten about the enhancements Dagna had made on her mage staff…but in her defence she had been startled and had only been thinking about Ryaning them…_frying__…__I__ mean __frying __them__…_at the time. Her glare shifted to the industrious shape on the other side of the road, passing Dagna and Ser Hanleigh with Greagoir giggling like a mad-god child between them…God children liked to be tickled…who would have guessed…?

She couldn't quite figure out why Ser Ryan wasn't talking to her. _He's__ avoiding __me, __isn't__he?_ Was it because they were in the company of Torrin and Ser Anwyn and he felt he had to slip back into unfriendly-Templar mode? Ser Hanleigh didn't have any problems conversing like a normal person with her, so was Ryan unhappy with her for some reason? Had she done something to displease him? She couldn't recall performing acts of unnecessary cruelty on small furry animals, assaulted any frail elderly recently or attempted to invade small, landlocked countries…So what was his problem?

Those bandits? It wasn't as if they'd come waving daffodils at them and throwing petals at their feet…They'd asked for a fight and they'd gotten it…

Or, did it have anything to do with the happy family picture Dagna and Ser Hanleigh made with Greagoir? She had caught his expression when the dwarf and Templar had gone into raptures over something or other the god baby did (she suspected Greagoir had just passed wind or something equally amusing) and the look on Ser Ryan's face had been…_sharp. _Given that he might not have had a chance to resolve matters with his own family before he left, would seeing others in a happy family situation like that give rise to resentment? How had his family reacted when he had told them he was returning to the Order?

_If __it __had __been __me, __I __would __have __struck __him__ with __a __frying __pan __and __told __him __never __to __return, __quite __frankly,_ Alyce thought, silently cheering on the cookware-wielding Morwenna in her head.

This did not – in part - make any sense to Alyce…well, not about the frying pan. She could definitely picture Morwenna striking Ser Ryan with a frypan…or a rolling pin or a dead chicken…right across those chiselled cheeks of his…and by the way he needed to shave. Clearly, he'd been in Aidan Cousland's company for too long that he'd begun to adopt some of Cousland's unpleasant grooming habits. _Well_, she thought sourly, _life __at __the __Tower __will __soon __straighten __him __out__…_He also needed a haircut. The way his hair curled around his shoulders was _definitely _not regulation and a tad…_I__ wonder __if __he __would __let __me __cut __it? __May be __if __he __braided __that __front __bit, __it __wouldn't __keep__ falling __across__ his __face __like __that__…_

Alyce slapped briskly at her cheeks_…__Where__ was __I?__ Besides __not__ thinking__ about__ Ser__ What's-his-name-look-at-my-fancy-stubble__ Ryan__…_After going through so much trouble gaining permission to return to Highever, Alyce thought it rather…odd that Ser Ryan now chose to return to the Tower. Well, perhaps not _odd,_ precisely. Any Templar worth their purple under-breeches wouldn't turn down such an offer as the one Ser Ryan had received to replace the Knight Commander. She would have thought him brain-addled if he hadn't considered it seriously…but. _But__…_She had thought him too attached to his family. Had something happened to change his mind? Or had she been reading him wrong all this time…?

It was…_disappointing_.

Of course because the universe was cruel that way, Ser Ryan turned suddenly, catching her staring at him. The suspicious frown he cast her way gave her no choice but to leave her stone seat; the dead vegetation by the side of the road suddenly fascinating. If she didn't have to _look_at him (and rear views were _completely_ different), then she wouldn't keep wasting her time puzzling over his motives. It was none of her business, unless as Knight Commander he did indeed impose all those 'improvements' he'd revealed to her…and then she'd just have to…Well, she would just have to find a way to kill him, that was all…

-oo-

The sword sheathed into its well-oiled scabbard with a satisfyingly soft whisper. While it had not needed sharpening, it had acquired a couple of nicks near the hilt, courtesy of the recent bandit attack. The swords were special; amongst the last made by his younger brother Geraint and bore the Smith's stamp of the Highever oak leaf. Maintaining the blades in pristine condition was a personal - not professional – undertaking and one he did not intend to take lightly.

He knew he was being watched; turning to find Alyce looking at him as though he'd slaughtered an entire pen of mabari puppies with a decomposing trout…Ser Ryan rose, frowning as Amell turned too quickly. Her sudden interest in the roadside ditches was so like her. There was really nothing in this winter-dry, post-Blight landscape to _see._ She was making it quite obvious that she was annoyed with him, but what had he done to anger her? He could not recall anything that he had said or had done recently to incur her wrath.

_She's __avoiding __me__…_that much was evident. From the moment they had left Highever until now, she had barely spoken three words to him. Was it a mage thing, he wondered? Slipping back into the well-worn, inevitable and _convenient_ distance that mages kept from Templars? For someone that disliked magic and mages as much as Alyce, she was quite happy to use being a mage as an excuse when it suited her.

His gaze eventually took him to the painting perfect trio of Ser Hanleigh, Dagna and small child. Ser Hanleigh had taken to child caring duties like a duckling to water. Despite the man's size, he was unerringly gentle and patient with Greagoir. Did Alyce resent this, Ryan wondered; the attention Greagoir was receiving? It was…unlikely, but without Alyce actually _telling_ him what was on her mind, he was only able to pluck ideas randomly from the air. Anything was possible with Amell. He'd seen her dispel a Hunger Demon without a single moment's hesitation and strike down genlocks, hurlocks and a fully grown, armoured ogre. From what Ser Anwyn had told him of their visit to Vigil's Keep, Alyce's magic had only become stronger since Ostagar and Denerim.

So what was it that was bothering her? The fact that she had been left unexpectedly an adoptive mother to an infant? He knew there were very few women who would be willing to undertake the care of someone else's child. Was she finding the task overwhelming? Did she resent being imposed upon by her Grey Warden friend? He had caught her looking at the child…oddly…at times.

Whatever the issue, he wished she would yell at him, call him a name or two; threaten him with bodily harm…anything. After their conversation in Highever, he had thought the two of them had formed some kind of truce. Glaring at him for no particular reason? He'd thought her better than that.

It was…disappointing, to say the least.

-oo-

"And allow me again to apologise most _profusely__…_"

Ser Anwyn was accorded an indistinct grunt in reply. He waited until the Qunari giant and his bruised colleagues had returned to the Spoiled Princess before searching for the Senior Enchanter. He spotted the two mages at the edge of Lake Calenhad; young Amell looking suitably chastened and embarrassed and so she _should,_ he thought darkly. He'd just been treated to a lengthy and aggressive lecture about how mages should be 'contained' by the small group of Qunari who'd just been roundly pummelled by Amell and her hair-trigger spell-casting.

More than a few of those suggestions had sounded mighty appealing; the portable Iron Maiden being his current favourite…

A metallic clink nearby brought the older Templar's attention to Ser Ryan. Anwyn turned, fully expecting the younger man to be sharpening his sword…_again_ and was surprised to find Ryan leaning against a drying frame, glaring at Amell.

Anwyn swiped at his aching temples. With the Tower so close, his journey was almost over. This delay was an irritation his dwindled store of patience wanted no longer to deal with. If it had been possible, he would have swum across Lake Calenhad to the Tower…braving near-freezing water, biting creatures and dangerously strong currents. In the many years he had been a Templar at the Tower of Magi, he had never known Kester the Ferryman to be sick. It was unheard of. Kester had manned his boat and rowed apprentices, mages and Templars to and from the Tower every day in rain, shine and plague of frog for…decades. Of all times to come down with a putrid sore throat, it had to be _today,_ when Anwyn wanted nothing more than to climb up to his quarters and hide under the sheets for a month.

There was little point in dwelling on it. The Qunari had moved on, Kester had his cold elixir and with any luck the ferryman would be punting them across the lake in no time at all…_And __in__ a __few __months__ I'll__ be __sunning __myself __in __Orlais,__ spending __all__ my __waking __hours __deep __in __contemplation __in __a __cloistered__ monastery__…__and__ not__ running __around__ after __miffed __mages,__ doing __damage__ control__…_

"Is there…something you wanted to tell me, Ser Anwyn?" Ser Ryan asked; Anwyn remembering that he'd turned to the younger Templar for…something. _Now __what__ had __I __been __about __to __say?_

"Nothing in particular…" Ser Anwyn sighed, feeling suddenly very old and feeble and wanting nothing more than to be out of this horridly cold weather with a thick rug about his knees and a mug of mulled wine to warm him from the inside out. "Looking forward to going home…" he murmured.

"Home?" Ser Ryan echoed thoughtfully. "I suppose this would be home for you, Ser."

"Me?" Anwyn asked in surprise. "Home is wherever the Divine wishes me to be," he added, a tad more sternly than he would have liked, possibly because he was still annoyed at the mage. If he had been in a better mood, he would have mentioned that fluffy rug and the never ending supply of hot, spiced wine. But he was in no mood to share his thoughts, wishful or otherwise.

Ser Ryan clearly thought the conversation over, returning his disapproving attention to the two mages at the lake's edge.

"I wouldn't recommend it, lad," Anwyn heard himself say.

"I beg your pardon, Ser Anwyn?" Ryan turned back, the emotionless mask of the experienced Templar sliding firmly into place.

Anwyn inclined his head towards the lakeshore. "Don't pretend to be dense, man," Anwyn told him sternly. "You know exactly to what I refer. You aren't the first Templar to form an inappropriate attachment to a mage and nor will you be the last."

Ser Ryan's eyes flashed for an instant; the muscles in his jaw tightening, but he said nothing, fixing his gaze on the weather-darkened doors of the Spoiled Princess behind Ser Anwyn.

"Mount her if you must," Ser Anwyn continued with a sigh, "But I would advise against believing any perceived feelings you may harbour as more than a passing infatuation. You have your place, Ser Ryan. Never forget that." Ser Anwyn gave the younger Templar an encouraging pat on the shoulder before returning to the Spoiled Princess and the warm fireplace within. Ryan watched him go silently. _Your __place__…_How many times had he heard that particular line? How many times had he counselled a Templar with the same speech himself?

"Ser Anwyn should not have said that…"

For such a tall, looming individual, Ser Hanleigh could move surprisingly quietly, though the larger Templar would have had to have been rabbit hopping to him in order to be heard over the sound of the wind. He shuffled to a position level with Ser Ryan, staring disapprovingly at the swinging door and looking offended on Amell's behalf.

"He should not have suggested that…_thing_ with the Enchanter," Ser Hanleigh said, blushing to the tips of his ears. "Enchanter Amell is a good girl and a lady. She wouldn't…She's a good girl, is all." He turned to Ser Ryan, looking as fierce as Ser Hanleigh could possibly look. "You aren't thinking of being…untoward towards the Enchanter, are you Ser Ryan?"

"Uh…" _What __is __this?_ Ser Ryan demanded the universe. _What __have __I__ done __to __cause __everyone __to __jump __on __my __neck?_

"Because if you are," Ser Hanleigh told him in a voice he hoped held enough warning, because he was being quite serious. "I shall have to be very…_strict_ with you, Ser Ryan. Even though you're my best friend."

"I'll keep that in mind, Ser Hanleigh," Ser Ryan reassured the man hastily.

Giving a single, satisfied nod, Ser Hanleigh too turned to enter the Spoiled Princess, collecting Dagna and Greagoir on the way in. Both dwarf and child gave him an angry look; Ser Ryan throwing his hands into the air. Unlike the others, he did not attempt to seek shelter from the cold at the inn, but made his way instead to the lake's jetty, feeling that if he was lucky, a strong gust of wind might blow him into the water and sweep him away from all these angry people…

-oo-

"And I would suggest bowing your head…" Senior Torrin wagged his finger at Alyce. "A thirty to forty degree angle…" he added. "Anything less than thirty might look insincere…"

"Like this?" Alyce whispered, bowing her head to an approximate forty degrees as the Senior Enchanter instructed.

"Perfect…Now, a few more waggles of my finger…I shall throw my hands up into the air like this and…I am done! Consider yourself chastised for the sake of Ser Anwyn's conscience…"

"Thank you Senior Torrin…" Alyce exhaled in relief.

"Well…I can hardly fault you on those impressively rapid Rockfists you conjured," Torrin told her approvingly. "I hope I am not mistaken, but the last two might have lacked some energy in their delivery. However given the size and sheer bulk of those Qunari Mercenaries…I am rather proud you managed to render them all unconscious within such a relatively short space of time."

Alyce smiled rather weakly, glad that Ser Anwyn was both far enough away and the wind too loud for their conversation to be heard. When Senior Torrin had hauled her by the scruff of her neck to the lake's edge, she _had_expected to be told off. Being congratulated was…confusing, but so like Senior Torrin, she supposed she should have _expected_ it.

His act over, Torrin sighed into the wind, gazing up at the shadowy silhouette of the Tower of Magi longingly. "Home…sweet home…"

"You missed the tower?" Alyce asked him.

"Missed?" Torrin's favourite eyebrow rose. "Hardly. Loathe the place. Loathe the damp, dank, the cold and the poor lighting. Despise the food…meal times being an exercise in gastronomic peril. As for its denizens…well, the less said about _them,_the better and quite frankly I prefer not to."

"But…then…?" Alyce stared. "_Why_…?"

"I was being _ironic,_ my dear…" Torrin sighed in disappointment. "But if you insist on some form of a sensible response well…it does have the best damned library in Ferelden…" Folding his arms, Torrin tugged idly at his beard, still gazing at the towering spire of the home of most Mages in Ferelden. Alyce tried hard not to think of the comment Dagna had made when she had seen the Tower rising from the centre of the lake. Her apprentice had likened it to something…_rude_.

_Oh __Maker__…__and __now __I'm __thinking __of __it__…_

"And it does provide relative peace and quiet," Torrin added. He craned his neck around Alyce's shoulder, something on the jetty catching his attention. Alyce had been keeping a half-eye on Ser Anwyn, feeling relieved when the old Templar at long last decided to retire to the inn, along with Ser Hanleigh, Dagna and the creature Torrin fiendishly referred to as 'Alyce's Love Child'.

"As long as the Templars do their job," Torrin added, somewhat distracted. "And keep the apprentices in check. Pesky creatures…"

Alyce turned, wondering what had caught the Senior Enchanter's attention. _Oh__…_

"Avoiding him isn't going to resolve matters, Alyce."

"Wha…?" Alyce's eyes grew to full moons. "I have no idea what you're…"

"Spare me, Alyce," Torrin rolled his eyes briefly stormwards. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know. Nor am I a complete dunderhead. As a Mage, you owe him little more than mere respect for a fellow professional true," he told her. "As a friend however, surely you can manage more than a silent glare and the odd, resentful stare…?"

"You're rhyming again," she pointed out helpfully. As a result, Alyce found her forehead being poked sharply and peevishly by an unexpectedly sharp finger.

"As far as I am aware," Torrin snorted, "the role of resident Smart Arse has already been filled. You, my dear are shockingly bad at smart-arsery and therefore might I suggest a far different aspiration? In any case," he added with an evil glint in his dark eyes. "You're a mother now. You've an _example_ to set…"

"You just had to remind me, didn't you?"

Senior Torrin smiled his placid smile. Turning from her, he walked against the wind towards the Spoiled Princess. Alyce waited until he had disappeared completely from sight, kicking her toe into the gritty ground while she waited. She then swivelled slowly, until she was in full view of the now indistinct, tall shape at the end of the boat jetty. She supposed Torrin was right, because when was Torrin never right? But how could she explain any of this to Ser Ryan? If he had chosen to remain in Highever, she would have told him about Greagoir; what he _was,_ with only a little trepidation about what he might do. Since he had chosen to return to the Order however, the _last_ thing she would do was tell him that the baby she had inherited had been created by a dark ritual performed by a maleficar to house the soul of a god that _wasn't_ The Maker…

_Hoo __yeah__…__tell _that _to __a __Templar__…__?__ I'm __not __that __completely __barking__…_It was bad enough that the Knight Commander had to know…if, that is, Irving chose to tell him…

Not to mention, the whole _Flemeth_ connection…_Which__ hasn't__ been __answered __at __all__…__damn __Neria __for __disappearing!_

Without thinking about it, Alyce's feet had taken her across the grassy shore towards Ser Ryan. With his cloak and hair billowing sideways in the wind, he looked like one of those heroes described in Dagna's trashy dwarven novels; the ones that Alyce assiduously did not read, not even to look at the pictures (and she did _not_have to turn them sideways…or upside down, _ever__…_). She wondered if the wind blew him off the end whether she would be forced to do something ridiculously brave like jumping in after him. She hoped not. She hated getting Neria's mage armour wet because it smelled like wet dog when it did and all the silverite chain-links seized up and creaked afterward…

"Oi, Templar!" she called out instead.

Ser Ryan turned. He thumbed his chest. "That, I take it was directed at me?"

"Yeah…whatever," Alyce waved a hand at him. Coming to stand beside him, she pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders, dragging her hood further down over her chilly cheeks. "Don't fall off the end or anything," she warned him gruffly.

"What's this?" he yelled above the howl of the wind. "Concerned for my wellbeing? I am touched."

"If you fall off, Ser Anwyn's going to think it was my fault!" Alyce yelled back. "He might think I pushed you or something…"

"Because of course the thought never crossed your mind!" Ser Ryan shouted.

"Of course it has, stupid! I wouldn't be a bloody Mage if I haven't thought about murdering a Templar or two at least once in my life."

"Then I am truly honoured!"

"Bah…Nug nuts!" Alyce shouted back, losing her footing slightly when an extra strong gust of wind chose at that moment to blow her closer to the edge of the jetty. Ser Ryan's hand shot out and grabbed her arm, steadying her against his side. Then it started to rain. Heavily. Great sheets of almost frozen water sleeted from the sky, soaking them both in seconds and turning them both into soggy pillars of travel-stained ice blocks. The land end of the jetty disappeared in the blanket of rain. Wind tossed waves of lake water over their cold, numbed feet. The logical thing would have been for the two of them to make their way carefully back towards the Spoiled Princess and the dry and the warm. Ser Ryan chose the slightly less sensible option instead: he kissed her…and Alyce forgot that she owned kneecaps.

-oo-


	56. Something Worth Preserving

A/N: Long overdue, but thank you to all of you who have taken the trouble and time to read – and review! Your comments are always appreciated, even if I can't respond personally, due to 'reply' being turned off. Cheers, everyone! I'm still so chuffed that folk are still reading…*stupid giggling*…

-oo-

**Chapter 56 – Something Worth Preserving**

"Mngngngggnnn…"

The bed made a far more coherent complaint when Alyce fell into it, sopping robes, cloak and all. She was grateful to be back, and even more determined than ever to find some way for mages to travel between mainland Ferelden and the Tower of Magi without having to cross – by boat – the treacherous, pitching, sucking, bucking rolling waters of…Her stomach lurched in several directions at once. Alyce rolled into as much of a ball as her sticking clothing would allow, waiting for the room to level out again. Stone, she reminded the universe, did _not__ move. _It wasn't supposed to move like this; swaying from side to side like a dwarven belly-button dancer. Dagna had demonstrated that once…and had to stop so Alyce could have a bit of a lie down until the room stopped spinning.

She was quite sure that blasted squid thing with the ten tentacles that liked to follow Kester's boat run had been _laughing_ at her too…right up until her breakfast was ejected into the lake waters, along with her dinner from the previous night…and the night before…and possibly any potential, future meals as well.

_Urgh ,__Andraste__'__s__ flaming __buttocks __I __feel __so __ill__…_What sadistic individual had decided to house all the Mages in the middle of a lake? Couldn't they have built it on a mountain somewhere…? Surrounded by a lava pit, nesting dragons or rabidly fashion-obsessive Orlesians, poo-poohing badly dressed mages every time they needed to go past?

_I __know__ I__'__d __be __terrified__…__Just __not __as __terrified __as __having __to __cross __water __every __time __I __needed __to __come __back __here__…_Which put her in mind of the old story about witches not being able to cross water and she felt even worse.

A scraping sound at the door announced Ser Hanleigh bearing a large wooden crate. Alyce pushed herself onto her elbows, squinting at his progress into the room. She extended a leg at the last moment, kicking a footstool out of the way before he tripped over it. A moment later, Dagna entered, Greagoir snoozing loudly in her arms. It was just as well that Dagna had elected to take charge of him because as soon as Kester untied the last knot and took up his paddle, Alyce had turned green and flopped over the side of the boat, completely ignoring the curious tentacles rising up through the water's foaming surface.

_Maker, __don__'__t __think __of __foam__…__not __foam. __Anything __but __foam__…_Foam…wobbled too much…and…Wobbling. Was. _Bad_.

Templar and dwarf set the makeshift crib nearby – but not too close – to Alyce's own bed. As soon as Dagna tucked the blankets in around Greagoir and stepped back, he grunted at both ends, rolled onto his stomach and began chewing sleepily on the bunched up sheets that made up his pillow.

"Aw," Ser Hanleigh gazed warm-eyed at the little god-child treasure. "He passes wind in his sleep too."

"That's so adorable!" Dagna agreed with a giggle. Alyce slapped her forehead. "You'd think he was part dwarf, or something!"

"Because the Maker made dwarves extra cute?" Ser Hanleigh asked shyly.

Dagna jabbed him in the hip with her elbow. "Aww…thanks…"

Still sitting on the bed, Alyce gagged, partially from the lingering effects of lakesickness, as well as from the cloyingly sweet atmosphere Ser Hanleigh and Dagna created whenever the two of them shared a mutual space. Considering how claustrophobic the Tower was already, this wasn't saying much, but Alyce wished the two of them wouldn't be so…sticky. It was disturbing. And sticky.

"Torrin said you were to go see the First Enchanter as soon as you were dried off," Dagna told her, nose in the air at Alyce's continued choking noises.

"_Senior _Torrin," Alyce corrected automatically. "Did he say anything about Greagoir?"

"No," Dagna shrugged. "Why would he? Oh…because we brought an extra mouth to feed? I suppose the Tower isn't really equipped to look after a baby…" Pursing her lips, she gave Alyce a _keen _look. "I suppose…" she said slowly, "it would be kind of silly to try to keep him _secret_…"

"It would be hard to explain the extra body," Ser Hanleigh added thoughtfully to the conversation. "Though...he's not likely to walk up to the First Enchanter to introduce himself is he? It's up to us to say hello for him."

"Well he's not so much walking as teetering about like a Legion of Dead Soldier on a pre-Deep Roads bender," Dagna pointed out.

"A Teeterer…" Ser Hanleigh chuckled. "That's almost as cute as the way he passes wind."

"Nothing is as cute as Greagoir when he passes wind!" Dagna guffawed.

"Can the two of you _please__ stop__…__!_" Alyce found herself yelling, only to be hurriedly shushed by her apprentice and the Templar. It was alright it seemed, for either of _them _to make enough noise to wake the decomposing dead, but not _her__…_

"The First Enchanter…dry!" Dagna reminded Alyce, shaking an imperious finger at her.

Blowing a raspberry at Dagna caused the two of them to shush her again, fingers pressed to their lips in tandem. Throwing her hands into the air, Alyce signalled acceptance of defeat for now and staggered unsteadily towards her clothes trunk. Collecting a dry set of robes and underthings, she teetered herself behind the stone screen where the shared washing facilities were housed. Her wet things peeled off with a sucking pop. She would dearly have loved a hot bath but the longer she kept the First Enchanter waiting, the more nervous she would become at presenting Greagoir to him.

Dried off and semi-presentable, Alyce scooped Greagoir up in a blanket to vociferous admonitions in each ear for her lack of courtesy. The god child didn't appear to care, burrowing into her shoulder with an indistinct mutter and another loud bottom bubble.

"We'll be back…" she informed them hopefully, leaving Dagna and Ser Hanleigh twisting their hands anxiously after her. Outside, the corridors felt stuffy; there seemed to be more people than usual…staring, gawping and generally eyeballing her. Mages and children…were mutually exclusive entities and she felt so self-conscious and incongruous, somewhere between the Mages' level and the First Enchanter's office, she took a wrong turn and for the first time since she had arrived at the Tower of Magi, she actually got _lost._

By the time she arrived at the door to the First Enchanter's office, she was out of breath, red-faced and in a worse mood than she had started out. God baby drool seeping in an omnipresent wave across her left shoulder, Alyce remembered why she disliked living here so much, amongst magic and magic-users. The stench of magic in the air felt weird and unusual enough. She didn't need these dim, tallow and death-stained walls to keep reminding her what she had lost; what she had had to give up. She missed Aunt Mildred; even more than she had as a child, wondering what kind of progress was being done at Amell House and whether Aunt Mildred was alright. She would have liked to have been in Highever to see her aunt and the Tremaynes settle in...

"The door is open, Amell…"

Senior Enchanter Torrin's voice broke Alyce from her distracted reverie. Brushing the goosebumps from her arm, she stepped into the First Enchanter's office, thankful for her mentor's presence.

"Ah…Alyce…" Irving's voice droned; grating on her nerves as she entered. "Do sit down."

She obeyed, sitting straight-backed and square shouldered in the spindly-legged chair offered by the First Enchanter. Greagoir stirred in her lap, yawning widely. He opened his eyes and looked around; his attention arrested by a stuffed toad perched on Irving's wide desk. Alyce considered moving it out of reach. Greagoir's method of investigating things of interest required constant vigilance and lightning reflexes. To date his victims included half a dozen snails of varying sizes, Dagna's favourite embroidered herb pouch and the top of Ser Hanleigh's head.

She looked towards Senior Torrin. Out of the piles of magical clutter; threadbare cloth-bound books, stained magical paraphernalia and moth-eaten magely accoutrements, it just figured that the child borne of a marsh witch would take an interest in a three-eyed, stuffed toad.

"I call him Buffy."

"Eh?" Alyce's eyes flew to the First Enchanter. He was smiling his official First Enchanter's smile at her. The one he used on all newly-arrived apprentices and non-mage visitors.

"Um…" She looked at Torrin again. Her mentor smiled _his _smile; the one that turned his dark eyes into inscrutable crescents, drawing the curtains on the windows to his thoughts.

With a single wave of his hand, the door to the office shut; the lock clicking into place. Another wave and the entire door glowed fluorescent green. Hands clasped behind his back, First Enchanter Irving strolled from behind his desk to stand between Senior Torrin and Alyce, observing Greagoir with thin-lipped interest.

"And this is he, I take it?"

In her nervousness, Alyce's voice deserted her. Greagoir however, returned the First Enchanter's gaze with iron-clad calm. When Irving tipped his head to the side, Greagoir did so too. When the First Enchanter pursed his lips, Greagoir did the same, making sucking fishy noises. When Irving leant in for a closer look, Greagoir extended a finger and poked Irving sharply in the eye.

"Well…" the First Enchanter straightened. Blinking rapidly, he retreated to the other side of his desk. "Everything appears to be above board…"

Alyce stared at him.

"I beg your pardon?" It was Torrin who spoke.

The First Enchanter shrugged. "Meaning he appears to be a healthy, happy, normal little boy around the age of one year or so."

Alyce and Torrin exchanged a baffled look above Greagoir's head. "Is that it?" Alyce's voice returned in a croak. "Normal? How can he be 'normal'?"

Irving sighed. "As far as I can tell…" Irving told them both. "But as I am not an expert in infants in general, I can only give you an _theoretical_ viewpoint. You should take him for a visit to the infirmary. Enchanter Petra has a better eye for these sorts of things. Might even be able to help you with the smell…"

"But…!" Alyce protested. "He's a…!"

"A human being with the soul of an old god," Irving cut her off easily. "Yes, yes, _that _at least I can acknowledge to know. But without ever having met one, I am as much at a loss as you are."

"First Enchanter…"

"What I also know is that this child poses far less risk to the outside world than the outside world poses to him," Irving frowned. "Warden Commander Neria was quite correct in sending him to the Circle."

"Except that she _didn__'__t_ send him to the Circle, First Enchanter!" Alyce argued. "She sent him to _me._"

"My dear, I hardly think there's a difference," Irving returned.

"You would cage him?" Alyce demanded. "Just like the rest of the Mages in Ferelden?"

Irving sighed. "The number of times I have been through this argument…You sound very much like that mage…Now what was his name again? Inventive little beast. Escaped the Tower several times. Once, disguised as a flounder."

"Porpoise. He was a porpoise," Torrin threw in casually.

"Ha!" Irving barked. "How appropriate! Named after a mountain wasn't he?"

"A Theodosian race of mountain dwellers certainly," Torrin offered.

Irving frowned, great hairy caterpillar eyebrows marching down his forehead. "Orlais? Rivain?"

"Anders, First Enchanter."

"Ah, that's the monkey!' Irving exclaimed. "Excellent healer, now I recall. You know, I can remember every apprentice that passes through this Tower, but for some reason the young man escaped me. Ha! I think I've just made a pun…" Irving paused for laughter but as none appeared to be forthcoming, he continued talking. "Hm, for some reason, I am also reminded of cats…"

"I know you're old and everything," Alyce told him, ignoring the groan of dismay from her mentor. "But I know you're not stupid," she added. "Neria consulted you about Greagoir, didn't she? What did you tell her? What made her decide on _me_ as this child's caretaker? Did you have anything to do with that? I would have thought the last thing anyone would want for someone with a soul of an old god is to be _here; _in a Tower full of Templars, on a site where the Veil is so thin you could poke holes in it with a sausage!"

In her agitation, Alyce had risen to her feet, Greagoir dangling from one arm. Torrin gently disengaged the boy, snaffling Buffy the stuffed toad to amuse the god baby.

Making calming motions with his hands, Irving urged Alyce to reseat herself.

"Quite apart from the…" he began, frowning abruptly. "Did you say his name was _Greagoir?_ My word, I can't wait to let the Knight Commander know. Do say I can…His reaction might actually make up for the tea services he's destroyed over the years…"

Alyce clapped both hands to her head in frustration. Irving gazed down on Alyce indulgently. It made her want to hit him with a stinging swarm. Or a building.

"You fear him," he stated with a sigh. "You _fear_ what he might become, Enchanter Amell."

"Of course I don..."

"Then allow me to give you the benefit of my experience, child," Irving continued, ignoring her interruption. "Every child has the potential to become a criminal; a thief, a murderer, a common thug. And yet by the same token, every child has the potential to become something great; a person of merit, a boon to society. Surely you don't wish to condemn young Greagoir before he can make that choice?"

"Choice?" Alyce scoffed. "Did I _choose_ to become a Mage, First Enchanter? Was it my _choice_ to be here?"

"No," Irving conceded. "But you did _choose_ to put up with it." Before Alyce could retort, he continued, stabbing the air with a skeletal finger.

"You were given an education," The First Enchanter reminded her sternly. "I daresay one better than most titled or moneyed ladies in this country. Blessed with the power to destroy, to heal, to improve the lives of others or to hinder their existences, what did you _choose_?" he demanded. "Along with a roof over your head and protection against those who would have tied a rock around your neck and thrown you into the nearest well, you were given the means and the knowledge to control the power feared by so many; tools to _survive_. Would you now deny this knowledge to a child who may one day need that same guidance, the same survival tools?"

Alyce looked at Greagoir, busily engaged in attempting to remove one of Buffy's limbs. He was a child of a mage. There was a good chance he too would show signs of magic…As though voicing her thoughts, the First Enchanter then said: "Legend tells us that it was the _Old __Gods_ that brought magic into the mortal world; taught the first mages their craft."

"Legend also tells us that the old gods annoyed the Big M and got themselves chucked out of his playpen," Alyce retorted, feeling the need to be contrary for the sake of contrariness. "I sometimes wonder if the Maker ever manifested himself in this world, he'd be that spotty kid at the back of his class picking his nose and flicking boogers at the other kids…"

"_Alyce_…" Torrin shook his head in dismay. "Subtlety really is not your forte."

"Everything I learned, I learned from you Senior Torrin," Alyce pouted.

"Not _everything_, I daresay…" Torrin sighed.

Taking charge of the conversation once more, Irving steered the subject back to Greagoir. "Are there not some things in this world worth preserving Enchanter Amell?" he asked gravely. "An old god; patron saint of Mages; embodied in the soul of an innocent child. Is that not worth _protecting_?"

Alyce exhaled a long, ponderous, thoughtful breath while still gazing upon Greagoir. Mage child or not, she would rather he didn't grow up in this stone prison. On the other hand, Irving did have a point. She would rather not turn maleficar to protect him from people who saw him as a threat. And _she_ lived here. It was inevitable that he would too….

She had just been about to speak when Irving's enchanted door fizzled and popped. The magical lock evaporated and the door itself exploded inwards with a wooden boom. The Knight Commander stood in the doorway, framed by the last, lingering tendrils of rapidly dissipating binding spells, the familiar sting of magic being dispelled and the area cleansed of magic prickling along the back of Alyce's neck and hands.

"Is it _true_?" the Knight Commander demanded. "There's a…" He advanced into the room, spotting young Greagoir almost immediately. His expression grew dark. "What in the _Maker__'__s __name__…_?" he thundered, pausing at the scrape of metal and leather. Ser Ryan appeared behind him, looking as though he had just sprinted here from the Templar's quarters two levels above.

"Knight Commander…" he began breathlessly.

Knight Commander Greagoir whirled upon his favourite soldier, anger blazing clearly in his eyes. "You came to explain this, I hope Ser Ryan? Because Chantry rules are quite clear on the subject of Mages and their…_offspring__…_" he spat. "Irving! I demand that this child be removed from these premises immediately!"

Alyce tried to open her mouth but found she couldn't. She couldn't even move; her eyes tracking to Senior Torrin's overly bland expression. _How __did __he __manage __a __paralysis __spell __during __a __Mana __Cleanse__…__?_ She goggled at him, impressed. _I__ so __have __to __learn __that!_

"He's not the child of a mage," Ser Ryan said quickly, drawing the Knight Commander's attention back towards him.

"Then _whom__…__?_"

Had it been her imagination, Alyce thought? Ser Ryan had purposely _not _looked at her...

Ser Ryan's eyes fixed firmly on Greagoir, jiggling on the Senior Enchanter's knee. "He is mine, Knight Commander."

Alyce was glad of the paralysis spell. Not only did it prevent her from doing anything foolish, it stopped her from falling off her chair in shock. From the hue of the Knight Commander's countenance, Alyce felt he could probably have benefited from the same spell.

"He is my son." Ser Ryan repeated. "His mother was a woman I met during the Blight; sadly passed on," he added.

Showing perfect timing, Greagoir shifted on Torrin's knee. Stretching his arms towards Ser Ryan, he uttered. "Da!" Which, Alyce would concede later, could have meant _anything,_ from 'my wrappings are full of something nasty', to a call for easily digestible food. Unfortunately for Ser Ryan, context…and in this case, a god…was against him. Already an unhealthy, mottled shade of puce, the Knight Commander added several large, distressingly hyperactive veins to the overall picture.

"You. _Broke._ Your. Vow. Of. _Chastity_?" the Knight Commander bit out. Then to everyone's surprise, he appeared to deflate. He was the one who broke eye contact with Ser Ryan, staring instead at Irving's threadbare rug.

"I confess myself to be grievously disappointed, Ser Ryan," he said; the sentiment clear in his lowered voice. "And you have handed your…child to a Mage…? For what reason?" Greagoir asked quietly.

"I have a great regard for Enchanter Amell," Ser Ryan replied smoothly. "As you are aware, Ser. She was good enough to offer her time and effort as caretaker. I could not…"

"Enough!" the Knight Commander bellowed, startling them all. "Irving!" he barked over his shoulder. "You condone this? Is the Circle now running an institution for Blight Orphans?"

The First Enchanter looked as bland as the Senior Enchanter, offering a shrug of his suddenly frail shoulders. "I can see no harm in it, _Greagoir_…which by the way is the name given to this child…An honour, surely?"

Knight Commander Greagoir grunted, refusing to acknowledge this. Directing a metal-clad finger towards the First Enchanter, he growled. "I hold _you _responsible, Irving! As for _you__…_" He turned back to Ser Ryan. "Report to the Arms Master. Not lightly are the Vows to the Prophet Andraste broken, _Ser_ Ryan. As the representative of Her Grace, it is my responsibility to see to it that you are punished in accordance with Chantry Law."

"Surely the Chantry can forgive one infraction, Greagoir…" Irving began.

"I was about to suggest fifty lashes," the Knight Commander snapped. "But seeing as you saw fit to interfere Irving, I shall make it one hundred. Any further comment from any of you mages and I will double that number." Forcing himself to look at Ser Ryan, he ordered, "Get out of my sight."

Ser Ryan saluted, turning to leave without protest. The Knight Commander followed him out of the door a full five minutes after his departure, clearly not wanting to share the hallway with his formerly-favourite Templar.

The door closed. Silence reigned for several more minutes in the wake of the Knight Commander's departure, broken by Greagoir's triumphant giggle as he finally managed to divest the stuffed toad of its left leg. Alyce realised the paralysis spell had been dispelled. She stood. Reaching out, she gently removed pieces of toad from Greagoir, returning Buffy to the First Enchanter's desk. Settling Greagoir firmly on her hip, Alyce bowed her head first to Irving, then to Torrin then walked calmly to the open door.

"You won't try to talk to the lad…?" Irving called after her; a caution rather than a query.

Alyce paused, her hand on the door handle. She lifted her hand to Greagoir, stroking the fine tendrils of feather-soft hair barely dusting the top of his head. It would be dark some day, his eyes a plain brown. He looked at her; direct and honest…and free of all the troubles that had gone into his existence.

"Something worth preserving," Alyce murmured. "Is that what you said, First Enchanter?" she added more loudly.

"I did indeed, Enchanter Amell," Irving confirmed.

"In that case…" she nodded. "I have made my _choice_…"

-oo-


	57. Into Darkness

-oo-

**Chapter 57 – Into Darkness**

The door closed with an ordinary wooden thud on its frame after Enchanter Amell, in contrast with the Knight Commander's highly dramatic entrance and exit. Left behind in the room, Senior Torrin settled back into the more comfortable of the chairs designated to visitors, propping his feet onto the edge of the First Enchanter's desk. With the armoured storm cloud gone, an atmosphere of tranquillity returned to Irving's office.

In the calm that settled, the First Enchanter began occupying himself with a carefully controlled flame, heating water in a tall ceramic flask to a precise temperature. With even more care, he collected quantities of dried leaves from various wooden boxes scattered in and around his desk into a flowery teapot before adding the water. As the leaves steeped, a comforting aroma filled the office. Senior Torrin inhaled appreciatively.

"So…" Torrin began. "What is your opinion?"

It seemed that Irving conjured two mismatched cups out of thin air, placing one onto a saucer; slightly cracked, the other onto what looked like a piece of Templar's shoulder guard, flattened from being sat on one too many times. Irving grimaced at the hodge-podge improvised tea service, reaching for the tiny hourglass by the inkwell to reset it.

"I think we've collected enough evidence to support the proposal," he said, watching the grains of sand keenly.

Torrin tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Despite this new development?"

The First Enchanter looked up; the deeply carved lines between his feathery eyebrows deepening. "An unfortunate turn of events," Irving sighed. "One marvels at the impetuosity of youth, though I do wonder whether this course of action might have been…pre-meditated in some way."

"Hmph," Torrin lifted his eyes Maker-wards. "You aren't thinking of _intervening_, are you First Enchanter?"

"Me?" Irving blinked innocently. "When have I _ever_?"

"Always, as you know perfectly well," Torrin replied before the First Enchanter could sound the last 'r' in his sentence. "To be honest, I'm rather fond of this arrangement," he added. "Most amusing, I've thought."

"Yes, yes, yes…" Irving waved an impatient hand at his Senior Enchanter. "Credit yourself as much as you like, man. Your gloating will be short-lived, if I have anything to say about it…"

"Oh ho!" Torrin straightened with a sly smile. "We're on _that _subject now are we? I do so hope you've been working hard on your concession speech…"

"Famous last words…" the First Enchanter drawled. "I haven't been Head of the Circle this long without learning a trick or two."

Senior Torrin's smile became even more mysterious. "And I haven't survived in the Tower under your leadership this long without learning a strategy or two myself, First Enchanter."

"Ha!" Irving exclaimed, "We shall see."

"Indeed!" Torrin grinned confidently. "I look forward to meeting you in battle, First Enchanter."

"Bah to you, Senior Enchanter…!" Irving scoffed, to the chuckling amusement of the younger mage.

-oo-

Alyce bent low over the contraption. Dagna had surpassed herself in its construction. It was beautiful as well as functional…or…she was quite _sure _there was function built in somewhere because Dagna never did anything without a reason (or this fast). Running her hands along the intricate, geometric carvings on the side, she located a raised circle, upon which a three-branched tree was stamped. Curious at its purpose, Alyce touched the button, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

Springs whirred, cogs turned and the half-cylinder bucket suspended between the two tall arms began to swing back and forth and suddenly it all made _sense._

"Whoa!" Alyce exclaimed. "Ingenious!" She turned to look over her shoulder at the dwarf sitting at the table. "You built a rocking bed? Wish I had one of these when I was a baby! I would never have wanted to grow up…"

"All dwarves have them," Dagna told her in a dull voice. "Apprentice smiths learn how to make them in their first year of indentured smithery...Do you think he'll get into trouble too?"

Alyce straightened, looking over her shoulder at Dagna. Greagoir sat on the table nearby; playing with the now three-legged toad that he'd pilfered from the First Enchanter's office and one of Dagna's throwing axes. The pink had been replaced – thanks to Owain and his lightning fast knitting needles – with a miniature version of a set of blue apprentice robes, including a cap with a very large pom pom on the top. Dagna thought it looked adorable. Alyce thought it made Greagoir look like a two-legged toadstool.

"I don't think…yargh!" Alyce had started towards them, impaling her foot unexpectedly on a wooden horse. While attempting to extract the horse, she put her other foot down on a pile of blocks, her ankle twisting with a nasty, crunching sound. Yelping in agony, she put her first foot down, only to slip on a pile of parchment Greagoir had swept off the table in a fit of babyish spring cleaning. Tears streaming from her eyes, Alyce half-limped, half-crawled the rest of the way. Clutching at the table, she hauled herself into the nearest chair.

"I don't think so," she gasped, wiping her cheeks. She bestowed a belated, comforting pat to Dagna's back.

"Is it true though?" Dagna asked, turning anxious eyes towards her. "What they're saying about Ser Ryan?"

"I don't know," Alyce rubbed at her ankle, a healing spell under her breath. "What are 'they' saying?"

"That he had some kind of…woman in Denerim and Greagoir is his child," she said slowly, watching Alyce's face with axe-sharp eyes. "It's not true right? It can't be true…I mean the two of _you_…Have you seen him?" she asked. "Have you talked to him? I haven't seen Ser Hanleigh _at__ all_ since we came back to the Tower." She extended one hand absentmindedly to adjust Greagoir's hold on the hand axe. "It's almost as if they're keeping them both from talking to us…" she added resentfully.

"Who is this 'they'?" Alyce asked, with an amused snort. "Realistically, how many times would you have seen Ser Hanleigh on duty in the Tower? I mean, ever?"

Dagna shrugged, looking troubled. "He used to be one of the regular Templars on library duty," she pointed out. "If not the main library on the apprentice's level, I could always find him on this one…"

Alyce sighed. Of _course_ of anyone in the Tower, Dagna would be the one able to tell which bucket-headed Templar was Ser Hanleigh. Alyce certainly couldn't. All Templars looked the same to her. If Ser Ryan hadn't accompanied the mages to Ostagar, she would never have even known he'd existed…Maybe…Unfortunately, Dagna was probably right, but Alyce knew enough about Tower politics to keep her nose out of it. Trying to look for either Templar was likely to make things worse, not to mention…_worse__…_Ser Hanleigh was an innocent bystander in all of this. He had nothing to do with Ser Ryan's foolhardy decision to take responsibility.

_The __stupid,__ bloody,__ honourable__…__idiot!_

Alyce rose abruptly. Her head hurt. _I__ need__ to__ be __somewhere __else__…_

"Alyce?" Dagna looked up at her enquiringly. "You alright?"

"Before I forget again…" Alyce murmured indistinctly. Leaning forward, she scooped Greagoir up from the table; toad, axe and all. "I keep meaning to swing by the Infirmary to have Petra take a quick look at Greagoir. Must do that now…"

"Why?" Dagna asked, looking even more worried. "Is he ill?"

"No…no," Alyce reassured her with a smile that was more a hasty jerk of her lips than anything to do with humour. "She's our resident expert in small whiny things," she added in explanation. "I thought I'd get her to point out the pertinent bits, maybe see if she has any useful reference books she can point me to."

"Alyce…" Dagna began, worry swapping out for exasperation briefly. Alyce relaxed…slightly; grateful to whatever higher entity had bestowed such resilience on her apprentice. "He's a baby, not a Tevinter water clock. I think most people just 'wing it'."

"What…'wing it'? That's just irresponsible…" Alyce repeated slowly, needing to duck her head in order to avoid a swing of the axe in Greagoir's hand.

"It's being _practical_," Dagna countered, rolling her eyes.

"We'll just see, won't we?" Alyce grimaced, turning towards the exit. Waggling the fingers from her free hand over her shoulder, she stepped out into the corridor. A little way down, she nudged Greagoir's axe further from her face again, pinning him with a warning glare. "And I am _not _going down to the Infirmary to see whether _he__'__s_ there…" she told him.

"Da!"

Alyce sighed in defeat. There really was no _reasoning_ with him…She hoped Greagoir would grow out of this tendency to drag people into a whirlpool of trouble. It was probably, she thought firmly, a _Grey__ Warden_ thing…It would explain how hectic her life had become since he had come into it, completely forgetting how chaotic her life had been since Ostagar, never mind anything _before_ that.

A thankfully event-free trip to the Infirmary later, Alyce approached Petra at her usual post, spying the healer painstakingly sorting bandage pins into size groups. Alyce scanned the beds as she entered. They were disappointingly empty. So…if Ser Ryan wasn't here…_best__ stop __thinking__ about__ that__…__now__…_

"Ah…Alyce…" Petra stood, noticing the two of them finally. "I thought I'd heard that you'd acquired a…" Her eyes widened suddenly in horror. "Alyce!" she screeched. "A dwarf weapon is _not_ a child's toy!"

Chortling in glee, Greagoir demonstrated perfect timing by tossing the axe at Petra. For such a tiny thing, he had a strong arm; the blade of the axe skimming the lower edge of Petra's right ear, bouncing off the wall and landing with a metallic clatter on the floor.

"It's…dangerous…" Petra squeaked weakly, the words of the scold she had just been about to deliver vanishing from her head. Alyce grimaced apologetically, wisely deciding against praising the god baby for his improved aim. She supposed reassuring the healer that Dagna had been teaching Greagoir how to throw axes dwarf-style all morning was probably also out of the question.

"So…um," Alyce cleared her throat, wondering what else she could do. _Well,__ since __I__'__m__ here__…_Presenting Greagoir to Petra, she said, "I was wondering whether you could maybe look him over and kind of…" She needn't have asked; the healer already running her very sharp eyes over the child in the Alyce's arms, searching for obvious bruises, contusions or other signs of injury.

"Considering how accident prone you are Amell," Petra said disapprovingly, "what insane individual trusted you with the precious life of a child?"

"Ah, well…" Alyce made a sound half-way between a snort and a nervous giggle. A…sniggle? "Just one of Neria's Blight orphans," Alyce told her, rather proud that she'd come up with that explanation so quickly. "One of her Wardens, um…and so Ner…kind of got…_So,_ moving right along…" _Sniggle._ "We know which end is up and which end is down. Food goes _here,_ that much is obvious and stuff comes out this lumpy bit here, _sooooo_…"

Petra frowned. Deeply. "So?" she asked, waiting for the rest of Alyce's request. It didn't arrive.

Staring at the healer, Alyce also waited…for Petra's words of child rearing wisdom to emerge, but they too failed to board the boat. After a minute or so, Alyce felt a prompt may be in order.

"So…?" she asked.

"What?" Petra snapped.

"What do you mean 'what'? So?" Alyce increased the intensity of her stare.

"So what?" Petra threw her arms into the air.

"Not 'so what'…So?"

"What so?"

"I really think you're not _getting_ it, Petra…" Alyce rolled her eyes at her. "And _you__'__re_ supposed to be the clever one?"

"I'm not a mind reader…" Petra scowled, tapping her foot irritably.

"How do I look after it?" Alyce said. _Good__ grief__…__It__ was __quite__ obvious__…_"Is there a pamphlet that you give out?" she added. "A tea towel printed with top ten tips and tricks? An _Encyclopaedia Infantica,_ that sort of thing."

"Alyce…"

"What?"

"He's a baby, not a Tevinter water clock," Petra sighed. "Most people just go on instincts…In the absence of extended family, folks just 'wing it', if you will.

"There's that wing thing again," Alyce muttered under her breath. "And it's irresponsible."

"Irresponsible?" Petra repeated in disbelief. She reached down and picked up the hand axe. Waving it angrily in the air, she scolded, "Giving a child who can barely walk an _axe _is irresponsible."

"Nonsense," Alyce scoffed. "Dagna says she learned the art of safe weapon handling before she cut her first tooth…_What?_"

"Never _mind_." Petra held out her arms. "Hand him over and I'll make sure he isn't missing any parts…"

"And if he is?" Alyce asked. _Is__ that__ even__ possible__…__?__ God__ baby__…__it__ could__ happen__…_

"I have a catalogue you can look at later," Petra murmured.

"Oh ha, ha, very funny…" _This __is__ that__ sarcasm__ thing__ I__'__ve__ been __hearing__ about,__ isn__'__t__ it__…__?_ Pulling a face at the other woman, Alyce allowed Greagoir to be claimed. He appeared to accept the healer without a single protest, staring at her with his large, curious brown eyes, fascinated by the colour of her hair. "So this catalogue…." Alyce began, _just__ in__ case._"Really?"

"What do you think?" Petra sighed. Tired of arguing she sat Greagoir on the nearest cot.

"Well…it would be very handy…" Alyce murmured thoughtfully. _Well,__ it__ would__…__God__ baby__…__anything__ was __possible__…_

The sound of running feet could be heard before Enchanter Deane's sweaty countenance appeared in the doorway. He pulled up short at the sight of Alyce, blinking in surprise and shock. He jabbed a finger at her.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, tugging at the wisps of his beard. "How did…?"

"How did what?" Petra asked, one hand on Greagoir to steady him.

Deane cast an apologetic look towards his fellow healer. "They said to come to the Infirmary to fetch Enchanter Amell," he began haltingly. "They said she was to come without delay…but how they knew she was _here_ and not…somewhere else. I'm amazed…"

"And agog, clearly," Alyce muttered under her breath. "What is it with you people and all these 'theys'? Doesn't anyone have a name any more? Do I have to start printing signs?"

Deane's face crumpled, looking unhappier than before. "They said not to say, Amell…"

"_Fine_." Alyce glared, her mage's sixth sense waving red flags in her head. She started to extend her arms towards Greagoir, snatching them back…unsure. Could she take him with her? _Should_ she take him with her?

"Why don't you leave the lad with me, Alyce?" Petra suggested. "Finish what you need to and come back. He'll be _safe_ with me."

"Hey!" Alyce exclaimed. Her own disquiet at the summons from whomever 'they' were aside, she felt she should be a _little__ bit_ affronted at Petra's obvious jibe, but she was also keenly aware of Deane's hurried gathering of poultices, bandages and essential healing herbs at her back. Healer's kit dangling from one hand, he tugged urgently on Alyce's sleeve with the other.

Petra sighed impatiently, completely unaware of Alyce's see-sawing thoughts. "If you like I'll take him up to Apprentice Dagna. If you're not finished by the time I am, I'll leave him with her."

Batting her hand at Deane's insistent tugging, Alyce stared sternly at Greagoir. "Don't eat anyone, alright?" she wagged a warning finger at him.

Greagoir's only response was a sly giggle. It did not put her at ease. Not in the least. Petra was a _smart_ healer. Would she be able to tell what Greagoir _was_? On the other hand, she hadn't really noticed Senior Enchanter Wynne taking a walk on the Fade side either so…

"Right…right…" Alyce nodded slowly. "I'll be back…" _Soon__…__I__ hope__…_

-oo-

Alyce followed Deane into the elderly, disused stairwell, through a hidden door in Owain's stockroom with great reluctance. The dusty, dirt-caked steps were narrow and worn with age. The rusted wall torches looked as though they had not been maintained in decades, perhaps centuries; the two of them needing to resort to magical means of lighting in order to negotiate the crumbling passageways with relative safety. The lower they descended, the more Alyce felt justified in her apprehensions. It was obvious when they had passed below the waters of Lake Calenhad. Even if her protesting, gelatinised knees did not give her a clue, the walls would certainly have shouted it at her. Slick with rotting algae and slimed with seeping damp, the eerily shadowed corridors would barely have accommodated a fully armoured Templar. The constant sound of dripping water made her wish she'd been allowed a comfort stop beforehand, but the tense knot in her stomach urged her forward.

_The__ Tower__ dungeons__…_She knew _how_ people ended up in here…and how they never left. At some time an attempt had been made to turn the slippery floors into a less treacherous space by laying down sand or sawdust (Alyce couldn't tell), but the stuff had never been removed, adding to the overall decay and neglect of the place. It was also darker than the inside of a brood mother's belly.

The ground dipped; their boots splashed into foul, greasy water. Alyce's experience cleaning the Tower post Uldredamnation had provided her with the ability to block out certain odours, along with selective blindness. Her eyes would _see, _but her brain would not tell her what she was seeing…It served her well here, even if her mind kept conjuring disturbing images of its own…

"Here, I think…" Deane said suddenly, jolting her out of her depressingly horrible thoughts.

In trepidation, Alyce directed her flame along the rows of flooded cells. At the end of the passage was a hand pump, so there was some provision at least to try to keep the place dry. It was simply a pity it appeared to be used infrequently, if _ever_…

"Wait a bit…" Enchanter Deane had moved on to the last cell on the left, a large metal key in his hand.

"Andraste's smoking snot…!" she heard him cry out.

She moved closer, the light of the flame in her palm falling upon a bloodied and bruised lump thrown without care onto a raised stone block. Fumbling with the key, Deane hastily unlocked the padlock, swinging the rusty gate open. He squeezed inside. Heedless of the piles of filth in the cramped space - remains of previous occupants, rotted meals and other things neither mage did not want to think too much about - the large healer positioned himself into a crouch; the better to assess the man's injuries.

Struggling to concentrate on keeping her flame alight, Alyce was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe; her feet turned to stone. She watched Deane play the healer silently, finding she needed to cling to the bars of the cell for support.

Deane straightened abruptly. He stepped out of the cell. "I need to fetch water," he told her anxiously. "Will you watch him while I'm gone?" He waited for her nod. "I'll be back." Squeezing past, Deane splashed noisily back the way they had come, taking with him the extra light. Alyce's ball of fire began to sputter and fade in his wake.

She didn't know how long she stood in the gloom, time no longer relevant, except for marking _how__ long_ he'd been here…A day? Two days? A door in the distance slammed; the sound echoing from wall to weeping wall. Alyce found herself in darkness, the last of her flame snuffed from inattention, but she didn't need to see him_._ She didn't want to see him. Not like that.

"_You__'__re __a__ stupid __bloody __idiot__ Ryan_!" she whispered hoarsely at him in the dark, the words sounding inane and futile to her ears.

Rusty metal biting into her palms, Alyce shook the bars in sheer frustration; her arms erupting into such an intense flame that the water about her boots began to bubble and steam. The cell gate smoked as she kicked it open. By the time she had reached Ser Ryan's side, her rage had abated to setting the remains of a corpse alight. She stood above him unspeaking; glaring at the lacerated bloody mess, the flames of the burning skeleton in the corner casting ugly shadows across them both.

She sunk to her knees then, peeling blood-matted hair off his shoulder. Touching his skin, she winced, breath hissing between her gritted teeth. _Cold__…_He was too cold…

"I didn't fix you up in Highever to have you die in some leech-infested dungeon, you Chant-spouting nug for brains…" she growled at him.

_And where the Fade is Deane…?_

"Guess you'll just have to owe me, Templar…" she added, her attempt at bravado sounding even worse than it had appeared in her head. On the other hand, she wasn't really thinking about _impressing _him…

Closing her eyes twice, Alyce slipped easily into the Fade. It wasn't hard to find what she was looking for. They were always lurking…these magic-hungry creatures…Alyce did not have to _choose_, picking them apart at random. The first to fall was – predictably – a rage demon, the second a loping hunger demon and lastly…a desire demon who unwisely attempted to _negotiate_ with her…By the time Alyce was finished, the entire row of cells were illuminated in magical light. _Who__ needs__ lyrium__ when__ you__ can__ rip __a__ demon __apart__…_she cackled to herself, the sound made more eerie by the answering echoes of her laughter.

On the long stone block, Ser Ryan stirred, limbs twitching involuntarily in pain. Alyce leant over him, resisting the urge to rip yet another demon to shreds…Too much, too many and she might do the same to Ryan…It was addictive, having this much power over a mere Fade creature…

_Stop…!_

Alyce swayed, stunned momentarily by the roar in her head. It took her several more moments to realise she had fallen to the floor and was sitting in something she would normally rather not sit in. Another minute more and her breathing had returned to an even rhythm. She rested her shoulder against the stone. Reaching up, she touched the skin on his neck. _Better__…_Warmth had returned at least and she was suddenly very, very exhausted, her fingers catching in the snarls at his nape. One of his own hands lifted, starting towards hers when there was a scrape behind her. Alyce turned her head slightly at the noise just as something heavy connected with her left temple.

A shower of black-red sparks bloomed in her vision then…nothing.

-oo-


	58. As It Is

-oo-

**Chapter 58 – As It Is**

_Ow…ow…bloody ow…_

"Alyce! Alyce! AlyceAlyceAlyceAlyceAlyce…!"

Alyce peeled open one bloodshot eye. "If you don't stop shaking me Dagna, I am going to kill you…" she _tried_ to say, but air refused to pass across her vocal chords; her tongue flopping uselessly in her mouth. What actually emerged was not recognisable speech, but an indistinct stream of garbled noise that caused Dagna's state of alarm to increase.

"Oh Alyce…!" she exclaimed again. "AlyceAlyceAlyceAlyceAlyce…!"

The dwarf dragged a chair across the stone floors, the scrape of wooden legs entering Alyce's head through her nostrils, screeching around the inside of Alyce's skull then refusing to leave. It was…no it wasn't painful Alyce decided. She had ceased to feel pain and had gone far, far beyond that over the horizon, skipping over rainbows of agony and clouds of ouch…and was now playing in amongst fields of aching and suffering. She whimpered, trying to cast a healing spell, but found she couldn't. Magic appeared to have abandoned her. _The__ bastards__…_

"Here…" Something cold dropped onto her head. Alyce yelped, not too sure whether she was happy about the application of ice when she really needed a complete head transplant. _Maybe __I__ can__ get__ something __new__ and__ improved__…_she thought quietly, because it might hurt less thinking softly. _I__ could__ probably __do__ with __a__ better __looking__ one__ too__…__smarter__…_

"We were so worried about you," Dagna told her, taking a hold of both of her mentor's hands and chaffing them vigorously. Alyce winced, trying to reclaim her appendages. _Too__ loud._ The hand chaffing was _too_ loud…

"When they brought you back, I thought you'd kicked the nug," Dagna sniffed, tearing up. "Greagoir was so worried too."

Opening the other eye, Alyce winced, regretting the gesture immediately as sharp spears of pain stabbed her eyeballs from inside out.

"Who brought me back?" she asked hoarsely. Her voice appeared to be slightly better, but she did not regret the attempt any less.

"The Templars," Dagna told her, shifting the ice on Alyce's head slightly.

"The Temp…" Alyce bolted upright; fireworks of gold, purple and crimson exploding in her vision. "_Ngargh_…shnorkle…blarkle…bleargh!" she added. "Oh Maker's _bubble__ bum;_ that _hurt_…" She grasped Dagna's shoulders brusquely, "_Ser __Ryan__…__!_" she exclaimed.

"N-no…" Dagna said carefully. "Not Ser Ryan." She thumbed her chest. "Dagna. Remember?"

"No I meant…!" She hadn't had a chance to see if Ser Ryan had been really alright. Nor had she been given an opportunity to clean and dress his wounds, unless Deane had been able to come back…Alyce pushed _that_ thought to the back of her aching head, not wanting to explore that particular subject because she'd just get nasty and for all she knew Deane might be an innocent in all of this…Well at the very least she'd been able to _fix_ the result of the 'care' his so-called respected friends and colleagues had left him in by abandoning him in a cold, diseased cell and left to bleed to death…

"And…" Dagna touched Alyce's shaking arm and opened her palm, revealing the familiar tear drop shape of a lyrium vial. "I nicked this from the Infirmary. I know you hate the stuff, but Ser Bran told me you were hit pretty hard."

Alyce blinked, her pain forgotten momentarily. "_Ser__ Bran_?" she exclaimed. "Then he would have seen Ss…" As focussing on Dagna and the mention of Ser Ryan's 'friend' made her eyes hurt anew, Alyce allowed them to drift wherever they liked. It made for a rather interesting visual journey about the room, alighting first like a timid butterfly on the small pile of books thrown haphazardly onto the floor then wandered along the walls, following the trail of a crack in the stone. The movement began to make her feel ill, so she simply closed her eyes again.

"I wonder if he was the one who knocked me out," she murmured. She couldn't remember…much after she had left the Fade. The last thing she could recall was the shape of a blazing sun against a crimson backdrop. It was a bit obvious what sort of person that symbol might have been attached to, but she would have liked to have remembered a face at least…so she could scorch it at a mutually convenient time later.

"Alyce…" Dagna began worriedly. "What's going on? When they brought you back, you were a mess…I've never smelled anything so bad…and the injury to your head…The Templars wouldn't let any of the other mages near you," she said, causing Alyce to glance at her again. "Not even Torrin."

"Senior Enchanter Torrin," Alyce automatically corrected out of sheer habit. She slumped, raising a hand to prod tentatively at the side of her head. From the size and shape of the lump there, she appeared to have grown an extra head. _Maybe __I__ won't __need__ a __transplant__ after __all__…_She was reminded of that horrible, pickled specimen Senior Enchanter Laoran had shown them in healing class once, of a perfectly preserved skull of some poor elderly person who had suffered from headaches all his life. It was only found after his death that they had been caused by the remains of an unborn_, _undeveloped child _sitting_ in his head. On that occasion Alyce recalled, Jowan had made some tasteless joke about an evil twin…

"You should take it," Dagna pushed the lyrium towards her. "I can mix a pretty mean potion, but I'm not good at…broken stuff…"

"Eh?" It was hard going, but once Alyce thought about it, the pieces Dagna had offered her snapped together. She sighed in resignation, swiping the lyrium off Dagna's palm. Snapping off the top, she poured the scant contents of the vial into her mouth, her face screwing up in distaste. _Urgh__…__why__ does __it__ always __have __to __taste__ like__ dirt?_ A couple of minutes later, the lyrium hit, the world turned blue and it didn't matter to her whether her head hurt or not…

"Alyce…!" Dagna hissed, grasping her by the shoulders and giving her a shake. "Try and be quiet! The Templars will come and who knows what will happ…"

The door slammed open. The Knight Commander stood framed in the light of the wall torch behind him. Golden flames reflecting off the mirror-like polish of his plate steel cast a tawny haze about his exposed head and hair, making him seem as though he was glowing from within with the holy, righteous light of The Prophet herself.

Alyce applauded, impressed.

The Knight Commander glared.

"I see you've recovered…" he snapped, turning even more sour at the apprentice's attempts to stop Amell from clapping her hands.

"Aw, I wish I could paint that…" Alyce chuckled good-naturedly. She waggled her fingers at the towering Templar, adding, "Whoo-oo…!"

"Alyce…" Dagna began in a pleading voice, clutching at her pig-tails in exasperation. Meanwhile the Knight Commander's eyes narrowed at the dwarf.

"Has this mage been given lyrium?" he demanded. "I remember _specifically_ requesting that Amell not have access to _any _form of magic while in custody."

"Um…" Dagna looked uncomfortable.

"Bugger…" Alyce muttered.

"Do you realise what you've done, apprentice?" Greagoir added.

"Um…" Dagna tried to look as innocent as a dwarf that had just left fingerprints all over the Infirmary storage cabinet could look. Poking a boot toe into the floor, she added, "Gi…ven…Ah…lyce…lee…ree…um…?"

"_That _is not funny…" the Knight Commander's glare sharpened.

"I'm going to throw up…" Alyce told them both. "A lot."

The Knight Commander threw up his hands as Dagna scrambled to locate a chamber pot. "When you've _finished_…" Greagoir began, grimacing as the first of Alyce's loud and horrible retching noises began. "The Templars will take you to be properly processed," he added, turning his gaze upwards. "A period of observation will then ensue."

"Carrots…" Alyce groaned. "Why are there always carrots? I _hate_ carrots…"

"Only after you have been pronounced safe to the satisfaction of _all_ will you be allowed to return to normal duties." The Knight Commander turned, shaking his head at the continuing racket and eager to escape the _smell._ He paused just outside the door. "And for the Maker's sake, apprentice," he said, mouth twisting in extreme distaste, "make sure Amell has a bath…for the comfort of everyone else living in this Tower…"

The door, surprisingly, did not slam, though Dagna could hear the Knight Commander stump all the way down to the end of the corridor. Next to her, Alyce fell backwards onto the narrow bed, moaning in discomfort and general unhappiness.

"I feel so much worse…" she groaned.

"The lyrium was a bad idea…?" Dagna enquired, looking guilty.

Alyce sighed. She reached out to give Dagna's hand a reassuring pat. "Well," she told the younger woman, "you've given me a good excuse to feel sorry for myself…Speaking of which…" She sat up again, looking about the room. It had not occurred to her before because _every_ room in the Tower looked the same as the next, but this one did not look particularly…magey. For a start, there were a couple of shields hung on the wall. They had the Chantry symbols of burning sun and Andraste's flaming sword emblazoned on them respectively. _Really__…_Alyce thought darkly. _Andrastians __really__ are__ a__ bunch __of__ pyromaniacs__…_

Clearly, they were not on the mages' level…She didn't know whether to be nervous about that or not. On the one hand, there were no mages to turn to should she find herself in any kind of trouble. On the other hand…no mages on this level…_Hm__…__and__ Templar__ living__ spaces__ are__ roomier__…__I__ wonder__ where__ Ser__ Ryan__'__s__ room__ used __to __be__…__?_ She shut down _that_ train of thought as well, storing it along with any opinions about Deane's oh-so-convenient dungeon desertion, Templar temper tantrums and any other amusing alliterations her tired mind could come up with.

"Where is Greagoir?" she asked out loud.

"Oh, baby Greagoir I'm assuming?" Dagna settled beside her on the bed. "He's sleeping. Loved the crib I made him. Torrin volunteered to watch him."

"Senior Torrin," Ayce rubbed at her eyes. She added, "Huh. That man's going to make someone a wonderful wife someday…"

"Are you going to tell me what's going on now, Alyce?" Dagna asked suddenly. Alyce looked down at her apprentice's upturned, scowling face and sighed again. She knew – in a way – it was unfair to keep Dagna in the dark, but there were always going to be some things that Dagna simply did not need to know…and not just because her young apprentice was already such a know it all. Greagoir's origin was one of those things, though…Alyce was torn on that subject. She had hoped by exposing Dagna's brilliant mind to Niall's just-as-brilliant translations, she would have discovered some hidden, secret meaning behind it all and shed some light on the darkness that Flemeth's spells had appeared to cast.

Dagna…hadn't really been all that impressed by any of Niall's work, or even of Flemeth. Her reaction to date had been…underwhelming. Nor had the dwarf found anything revolutionary or ground breaking. Does it matter now though, Alyce asked herself? In reality, young Greagoir was the answer. _Why_ he was apparently didn't matter - according to the First Enchanter anyway - though Alyce was not willing to let it go just yet.

"How much do you already know?" Alyce asked Dagna cautiously.

"Those horrible rumours about Ser Ryan," Dagna huffed. "You disappearing then reappearing looking even more worse for wear than usual…If you'd only let me braid your hair and you wore those silver robes more often, you could pass for someone pretty, you know."

"One," Alyce made a face that was pure lemon. "You are not coming anywhere near my hair with a ribbon, bead, humorously-shaped hairpin or otherwise. Two, I'm not _here _to be 'pretty' and three…"

She slumped, arms draped across her filthy knees. She plucked miserably at the ruined, torn fabric. Yet another robe destroyed. Owain was going to start getting annoyed at her for the number of robe replacements she requested…if Tranquil were ever capable of getting annoyed.

"Three…" she started again…How much _could_ she tell Dagna? Dwarves were understandably a bit touchy about Darkspawn and Archdemons. Going into a once in a lifetime battle with a horde of Darkspawn was far different than growing up knowing those tainted creatures were only a hop, skip and a Thaig away. And Darkspawn came with inbuilt life careers; to forever search for an old god to lead them out of the darkness. It would not…end well if Darkspawn ever came looking for Greagoir…As a dwarf, would Dagna feel the need to exercise some kind of inbuilt, dwarfish imperative to see that another Archdemon didn't happen?

"Greagoir is a child of one of Neria's wardens…" Alyce told her in the end. _Well,__ it's__ true__…__in__ a__ way__…_She lowered her voice, eyes darting to the room exit for the telltale shadows of lurking, sharp-eared Templars. "Not Ser Ryan's," she added. "I'm not too sure why he decided to lay claim to Greagoir…" _Well,__ actually __I__ think __I__ have__ an __idea __and__ I__ want __to __smack that man __upside __the__ head__ for __it. _"But he did and he was punished severely for it."

Seeing Dagna's eyes grow wide, Alyce hurried on. "I was called down to…where he was to heal him. Where he is now…"

"You're worried about him," Dagna stated with a nod.

"Of course, I'm worried about him!" Alyce snapped. "He's a friend and I hadn't finished healing…" Her voice gave up and crawled away at the pitying look on Dagna's face. _Oh,__ not__ this __again__… _"A _friend,_ Dagna…" Alyce told her firmly. The dwarf nodded knowingly. Alyce sighed in impatience. "Templars and mages," she began as clearly and as definitely as she could. "Do not mix."

"Actually," Dagna sniffed, looking haughty and so _knowing_ that Alyce wanted to slap her. "Templars and mages are perfect for each other. What better person for a mage to be with than someone who can handle their magic?"

By her sides, Alyce's fists twitched. There really was no _telling_ Dagna, was there? And she was tired of and bored_ with_ the entire subject. Was not admitting she loved Ser Ryan enough? Did she have to don a flimsy lace negligee, stand in a high wind and 'pine in thought and deed' like those useless heroines in the dwarf novels she did _not__ read_? Yes, she knew what Dagna meant. Templars were people too…and were entitled to have and show feelings. The same applied to mages.

The trouble with that little hypothesis was that Templars for the most part did not think mages were people and the majority of mages were of the opinion that Templars were empty walking suits of armour. Where there should have been a heart was the burning sun of the Maker. Where a brain should have resided were the words of The Chant, branded to the insides of their skulls. They had a job to do; to keep the general public safe from mages and their curse. The Chantry enforced that by dosing their Templars with lyrium; a foul substance that enhanced their religious zeal and turned them into drooling husks by the time they were in their late forties and no longer physically capable of pursuing Apostates in any case.

In that sense, the Order was no different than the Grey Wardens…

There were exceptions. Alyce would have been a fool to believe otherwise. Ser Ryan was lucky to have inherited his parent's sensitivity to lyrium and escape that particular, life-shortening detail, but luckier to be able to perform conveniently devastating Holy Smites without having to take it. He had certainly never hesitated to demonstrate that particular talent to her…

Ser Hanleigh, Ser Bran, Ser Anwyn...They all took their daily doses like good little Chantry sheep. Ser Hanleigh might feel uncomfortable about pursuing a maleficar across country, but he wouldn't _refuse_ to do it, for the good of innocent, wide-eyed little non-mage children everywhere.

Nor would Alyce hate him for it.

It was not an old idea either, this whole...Templars and mages coexisting thing, but just as Templars were taught to be wary of mages, mages were in turn encouraged to keep their distance from their designated keepers. She was _grateful_ Dagna was such a romantic optimist. It saddened Alyce to think that given enough exposure to Tower culture, Dagna would one day come to think as everyone else did. She just wished her apprentice wasn't so damned _superior_ about her _current_ belief.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Alyce made for the door. Poking her head out, she was immediately met with a pair of stern hazel eyes beneath a curly thatch of gingery hair. _Ah-ha!__ And__ here __is__ a__ perfect__ example __of__ why __lyrium.__ Is. __Bad__…_

"What do you want, mage?" the carrot-top demanded.

Hanging on the door frame, Alyce made a face at him. Really, if the Knight Commander had left Ser _Carroll_ guarding her, she can't have been considered _that_ much of a threat.

"Huh…" she said, looking him up and down. "It's you…"

Ser Carroll harrumphed at her. "What's that supposed to mean, mage? I'm watching _you__…_"

Resisting the urge to bite the finger being jabbed rudely at her, Alyce rolled her eyes at him. "How do I arrange for a bath and some very strongly scented soap on this level?" she asked.

"I dunno," Ser Carroll said, scratching the side of his nose.

"Can you maybe find out?" Alyce asked, making sure she enunciated each word very carefully.

"What do you think I am? A bleeding _servant_?"

"Or I can just be stinky at you," Alyce told him. "Here…stink, stink..."

Screwing up his nose, Ser Carroll began backing away. "I'll make enquiries…" he said. "But you are not to leave that room! I don't want you contaminating the rest of this level!"

"And that…" Alyce turned back with a sweeping movement towards the empty, formerly Ser Carroll-shaped space, "is a compelling argument against a romance with a Templar!"

"Not all Templars are like that…" Dagna argued quietly.

Alyce returned to Dagna's side. "No," she agreed, patting the top of Dagna's head. "Not all Templars are like that and you are lucky that you are not a mage."

Dagna looked up, blue eyes unapologetically fierce. "_Alyce_…"

"Ser Ryan's reputation has been tarnished beyond repair, Dagna," Alyce told her. "_He_'_s_ made sure of that. And we will never see him again. If the Knight Commander doesn't make it happen, the First Enchanter will certainly make it so. It doesn't matter what my feelings are on the subject," she added, with a small, friendly shake to Dagna's shoulder. "The Chantry and The Circle's will is _absolute_."

-oo-


	59. The Shape of Things

A/N: Not looking at the chapter count…not looking at the chapter count! A very belated thank you to all of you who are reading. It really is pretty darned cool knowing that there are readers still riding this rickety old jalopy. Your support and comments have been so appreciated and cause me to make very Un-ChampiontheSnail-like girly squeals, whenever I see a story marker, fave or…_review__ (ooh!__ A __Review!)_ Especially when I write 'filler chapters' like the last.

Thank you, thank you!

-oo-

**Chapter 59 – The Shape of Things**

"…_and__…__.hold __it__ ste__…__no__ steady!__ Steady!__ Ste__…_

"Andraste's flaming titmouse!"

_WOOF!_

Several things happened at once: The apprentice caught on fire. Squealing in panic, he began leaping up and down, spitting flames in all directions. A single spear of bright orange hit the bookshelves; the resulting conflagration swooshing hungrily along the shelf devouring wood, parchment and flammable dried ink. The other apprentices meanwhile, dove under the long table in an attempt to avoid their fellow student being pursued by the Enchanter, along with the ice spells she kept shooting at him. One finally hit, just at the same time as a dark-haired Templar arrived with a bucket of water…

The ice spell doused the flames _and_ the apprentice with an audible fizz, but Ser Bran's water missed its mark completely, soaking the mage from head to waist, the last ice spell crackling on her outstretched hands and finger tips.

Standing in a steaming puddle, Alyce glared first at the apprentice and then at the Templar. _He__ did__ that__ on__ purpose__…__!_

Ser Bran's lips did _not_ twitch, applauding the Enchanter's ability to convey such heated loathing from only a single eye; the other completely concealed by the sodden hair plastered across her face.

"You missed," she growled at him.

"No I didn't," he retorted, congratulating himself for his fine work. Annoying Enchanter Amell was hardly a challenge and somewhat of an occupational hazard…but turning the Tower's crotchetiest mage into a wet dog was well worth it; not to mention…a female of her stature made for interesting viewing when damp.

The apprentice whimpered. Bran cleared his throat. Lowering the bucket, he peered down his long nose at her. "I'll remind _you_ Enchanter," he told her, "that this is the _third_ apprentice you've almost killed this month. One might be considered a coincidence, but three…?"

"I wasn't the one that set him on fire, Ser Roughage!" she snapped back at him.

Ser Bran attempted to fold his arms across his chest. Owing to the fact that he was clad in very restrictive plate metal and still had one hand wrapped around the handle of the bucket, this was more of a cross than 'across'. He gave up in favour of returning her glare, glittering eye for glittering eye.

"You're going to run out of apprentices soon…"

Alyce curled her lip at him. "Plenty more where he came from…" she argued. "Place is practically _crawling_ with them…"

Ser Bran rolled his eyes; the arc of his gaze falling eventually onto her heaving bosom. _Hm__…__actually,__ not__ much __to __heave__ there__…_

Amell turned from him abruptly. Addressing the smoking apprentice she said, "Oh, go on. Might as well report to the Infirmary."

"B-b-b-bu…" the apprentice stammered nervously, "Mistress Petra said if she saw any more of your apprentices down there, she was going to shove your staff in a place where…"

"Fine, fine, fine…Bleed to death, what do I care_…_?"

"Enchanter Amell!" Ser Bran exclaimed disapprovingly.

"Well he's not bleeding all _that_ much," Alyce shrugged, poking the apprentice with rapid fire healing spells anyway. When she was finished, she rapped the quivering apprentice smartly on the shoulder with her enchanter's staff, "Are you, eh? What's a little blood between mages…? A few scars here…there…the ladies love that sort of thing, right? Makes you look like you could tear a troll in half with your bare hands."

"Yes Enchanter Amell! Thank you Enchanter Amell!" The apprentice fell short of _saluting _his mentor, looking so stiff anyone could have repaired a broken sword on the lad.

"_See_?" Alyce tilted her chin at the Templar, who was now shaking his head in disbelief.

Ser Bran screwed up his face in between head shakes. _Blood __between__ mages__…__?__ A__ very __poor__ choice__ of__ words __for__ a__ Tower __mage__…_

"And you lot can come out from under there!" Amell barked at the other apprentices huddled under the long table. "You're mages, not _hamsters!_"

"We won't technically be mages until after we pass our Harrowing…" a resentful voice emerged from the back of the group.

"Right," Alyce nodded. She stepped up to the group. Towering over the youngsters, she purposely _dripped_ on them. "Five hundred lines _each_ on the perils of failing to erect a timely spell barrier…and I do _not_ want any gothic romances this time, do I make myself clear I'mlookingatyouApprenticeDorcas!"

"Aww…Enchanter Amell…!"

"No heaving bosoms, smouldering gazes, or water droplets cascading down anyone's unmentionables!" she added sternly.

_Bosoms_…? Ser Bran perked up, his gaze automatically travelling to the offending apprentice. She was a mousy, skinny thing with straw pale hair, and even paler, suspiciously colourless skin. _Apprentices__ these__ days__…_he thought sourly. Once upon a time, a mage was happy enough wearing luridly colourful robes to tell the world they were walking almost-abominations. _These __days,_ they did strange things to their hair, refused to go out in the sun, floured their faces and conversed in wispy, breathless voices, addressing each other as 'thou' and 'thee'.

Ser Bran sighed in disappointment. There was no potential for a heaving bosom on this apprentice either, resuming his head shake as Amell's apprentices filed with trudging feet from the library. After they had disappeared from view, Amell turned on him. As she did so, the bookshelf behind her made a cracking noise and collapsed in a shower of smoky ash.

"Is it me, or is this lot worse than the last?" she asked, ignoring the tinkling sound the settling wood made behind her. "You know I caught one of the apprentices last week handing out strawberry cordial and pretending they were drinking blood? What the _Fade _is _that_ about? Where are they coming from?" She jerked her head aggressively in the direction of the southern library exit, where the apprentices had gone.

Ser Bran pondered her words. "Strawberry cordial?" he enquired. "Were they pretending to perform some kind of blood ritual? If so, I will need to report their activities..."

"Hah! As if!" Alyce sniffed in disgust. "He ended up making fruit floaters because the thought of drinking blood was making him feel ill. Pa_thetic_…"

Ser Bran nodded in confused agreement. He craned his neck around Amell's still-dripping form to assess the fire damage, wincing at the charred mess. _Why__ does __this __always __have__ to __happen__ when__ I__'__m__ on __duty__…__?_

"You want to write this one up, or me?" he asked wearily, not looking forward to the piles of paperwork Amell's work would cost him.

"My turn, I think," she said, cringing at the pile of ashes and soggy furniture. She pulled at the wet material of her robes. "I need to ask Owain for _another_ set of robes," she murmured. "Honestly, you'd think the Tower Powers-that-be would design mage robes to be fire retardant, but nooooo…" She kicked the skirt of her horrible mustard coloured robes with her ankle, "Look at them. They practically scream 'burn me, scorch me, cover me in ice and drop me in the Lake'."

"Oddly, I can't hear them say that," Ser Bran mused.

"That's because you have no imagination, Ser Corn Husk."

"Templars aren't paid to have imaginations, Enchanter Unamiable", he retorted.

Extending a single finger, Alyce prodded the Templar in his breastplate. "Oh ha, ha. How long did it take you to come up with that one?"

"Almost as long as you and your harvest-related name substitutions for me," Ser Bran said, poking a very un-Templar-like tongue at her.

"Hey, I wasn't the one that named you after a food crop," she told him, bending down to retrieve one of the more intact volumes of spell books that had fallen from the book shelf. "If you're going to blame anyone, blame your mother."

"I was actually named after a bird of _prey_," Ser Bran informed her haughtily.

"What?" Alyce snickered, unimpressed. "_You_ a bird of pretty? Like what? A vulture…? A Buzzard? I like that: 'Ser Buzzard'"

"A raven as it happens."

"Ravens aren't birds of prey," Alyce mocked him, tossing the book in her hand onto the table. "Ravens are noisy, pooping things that live in Towers…Ohhh…_wait__…_"

"Shut up. Don't make me Holy Smite you."

"Anyhow…" Grabbing another handful of books from the floor, she piled them too onto the table. "I was supposed to check in with the First Enchanter after class." She sighed, viewing the mess again with an unhappy twist of her mouth. "I suppose I can let Owain know to send a mop and brush crew up here on my way through."

_Huh__…_Ser Bran stepped to the side as Amell moved past. _Still__ on __mage-watch__ after __all__ this __time, __hm?_ For one small, precious moment, he almost pitied her but giving one side of his head a smack with the palm of his hand dispelled the illogical compulsion to do so. Without another look at the mess Amell had left behind, he walked the short distance to the end of the book case, resuming his watch.

-oo-

_Ah__ Maker__…__I__'__m __kind __of__ tired__ of __this__…_Alyce inhaled, cinched the belt and then let her breath out slowly. The trousers dropped from her waist to her hips, but that was okay. Out of her robes and in the only other spare set of clothing she had (besides the 'special robes'), she felt as though she was being strangled from the waist up by her belt, so the looser the better. She had forgone sending the scorched, wet robes from the morning's lesson to Owain and his diligent Tranquil seamstresses. The only one faster with needle and thread than the Keeper of the Tower Stockroom was Keilli and she might have had her connection to the Fade removed, but it hadn't removed her ability to deliver a sternly worded scold on the proper treatment of Tower property.

The robes were now hanging up above the bath, where they could drip dry. On closer inspection, the scorch marks were not all that bad. Neither was anyone likely to care. As long as she wasn't marching about the Tower naked as the day she was born, no one would notice.

In shirt, tunic and loose trousers, Alyce hurried up to the First Enchanter's office. She hated these sessions, but Torrin explained the necessity of at least giving the impression she was being monitored. Her consorting with demons in the Fade made her high risk, despite the fact she had been less than chummy with them. Associating with demons was associating with demons…and using the life energy from them to power magic made the Templars _nervous_.

In reality, she spent every second afternoon dusting Irving's bookshelves and making sure his canisters of dried tea leaves were kept filled. From time to time she sat in on conversations with his Senior Enchanters; regular progress reports of promising apprentices, venting petty disagreements and the brewing of _ale,_ of all things. Apparently – and who knew? – the quality of a senior mage relied heavily on his (or her) ability to blend hops, yeast and distilled water.

Alyce had no interest in the subject. She preferred something with a bit more punch and kick, like the Deep Roads rum that Dagna had once bartered from a dwarf merchant a season ago. Even if it hadn't cleared her sinuses with a single sniff or threatened to put hair on her chest, it had been worth seeing Dagna get completely blotted from the landscape on a half-glass of the stuff.

It was nice to know Ferelden's perfect little dwarf had a weakness.

When she reached the door to the First Enchanter's office, Alyce was feeling in much better spirits, pun intended. She raised her fist to knock, when she realised the door was already open and the First Enchanter entertaining a visitor.

She poked her head into the office, trying to catch Irving's eye. The stranger had his back towards them. Square shouldered under a set of well-worn leather armour with many studs, clasps and belts, he appeared to be dressed for speed and ease of movement, rather than for any kind of protection. As Irving gestured silently for her to enter, the stranger turned, revealing a countenance that appeared to be carved out of stone; barely weathered by the elements to smooth the angles and sharp edges away. His hair was black as a crow's wing, eyes of a piercing, pale blue that was both mocking and self-critical at the same time.

He looked vaguely familiar to Alyce, forcing her to wrack her brain for a name to attach to him. Then she noticed the embossed symbol on the leather chest plate; the symbol of two Griffons facing each other, wings outspread as though clashing in mighty combat.

"Ah, Alyce…" the First Enchanter droned as she approached. "Well timed." He gestured towards the leather-clad man. "You remember Warden Howe…"

Alyce tore her eyes from the Grey Warden to raise her eyebrows enquiringly at the First Enchanter. _Howe__…__That_ name she associated with the battle for Highever and _not_ one of Neria's wardens, though it hadn't been as though her old friend had introduced all of her Wardens to her…_Neria__…_Would he be able to tell her about her old Tower companion? Alyce had not seen or heard from the elf mage since that night in Highever…

"Warden…" Alyce nodded at him, wondering also how a Howe had become a Grey Warden. "Is Ner…the Warden Commander back? I haven't heard from her in…well, ages."

Warden Howe smiled. The expression transformed his stern visage into something resembling a human. He almost looked…huggable…if one admired the grim, stoic, craggy, dark hero type…_Where__ was __I?__ Um__…_

"Commander Surana is still abroad," the Warden told her in a voice that was equal parts gravel and honey. "From report, I hear she is as hale and hearty as one would wish."

"In Warden Surana's absence," the First Enchanter explained, taking up the reins of the conversation. "This young man is acting Warden Commander. He's here to recruit more mages."

Alyce nodded. "Neria always said she wanted more mages in the Order. I suppose having more would mean old porpoise-features wouldn't feel so special."

"Porpoise-features?" Howe repeated quizzically.

"She means the young man known as Anders," Irving supplied smoothly.

"Ah…" Warden Howe turned back to Alyce with a small grimace. "Anders is one of the subjects I needed to discuss with the First Enchanter," he told her. "As well as…?" The Grey Warden looked towards Irving for approval who waved a hand in agreement. "The…child that the Warden Commander left in your care several months ago…He is well I trust?"

"He's mostly alive…" Alyce told him. Taking a half step backwards, she folded her arms in a gesture that was meant to look defensive. She flicked a glance at the First Enchanter. "What's this about?"

"I mean no disrespect, Enchanter Amell," the Warden smiled his stomach-fluttery smile. "The Commander enquired about him in her last missive and…" Again he looked towards the First Enchanter. These exchanges of meaningful looks were beginning to unnerve her. On the other hand, Alyce was enjoying being nervous. It was possibly the most excitement she'd had in the last six months.

"I have as yet to inform Enchanter Amell," Irving told the Warden.

"Inform me of what?" Alyce asked, avoiding looking into the sucking whirlpools of Warden Howe's eyes. _Maker,__ keep __Dagna__ away __from__ this__ fellow__…__Does __Neria__ only __ever __recruit__ good-looking__ Wardens__…__?_

"You're being assigned to an external post," Irving told her, watching her carefully.

Alyce considered this statement. The term 'external' was a wholly foreign word to her. It implied the world outside the Tower and…mixing with ordinary people. Doing ordinary things…in ordinary ways. After a moment more, Alyce felt it more or less safe to return to her admiration of Warden Craggy, thinking that he would look rather good in a cape. A blue one. To match his eyes. _It__'__s __finally __happened.__ I__'__m __going __Tower__ crazy__…_

"So…" she actually said, in lieu of voicing her nonsensical internal monologue. "I hope that doesn't mean I'm being conscripted. Because if so…" she glared at the First Enchanter, "I'm turning to Blood Magic…"

-oo-

"He reminds me a little of my nephew…"

Alyce pasted as friendly a smile on her face as she could manage. It made her face ache with the effort. Dagna had positioned herself at the exit; an off-duty Ser Hanleigh in backup just outside. The atmosphere was understandably tense as the Grey Warden acquainted himself with the god baby. Twice, Alyce had to pull back a spell from being released. Dagna had noticed, touching her hand in concern.

"Is he going to take him back?" she whispered. "To the Wardens?"

Alyce returned a grimace. She could hardly reveal now – after all this time – why having a Grey Warden anywhere _near _Greagoir filled her stomach with a thousand millipedes.

For his part, Greagoir appeared completely at ease in Warden Howe's company, happy to perform for anyone, showing Warden Howe his collection of toys; carved animals Ser Hanleigh had presented to him as a set, a miniature pick-axe, shield and sword that Dagna had artfully crafted. There were the wooden blocks that Owain had cut from salvaged wood and cleaned of bits of abomination; noisy boxes of beads Alyce had made for him herself and the crowning jewel…Buffy, the three-legged stuffed toad; much chewed with one, sunken, diseased-looking eye.

Warden Howe had sat cross-legged in front of the boy, patiently accepting, examining and dutifully admiring all of Greagoir's treasures.

By the time Buffy had been presented, Alyce had had enough. Pushing Dagna towards the door, she requested a private audience with Howe.

Dagna resisted only briefly, looking curiously up at her mentor and knowing full-well what the squared jaw and narrowed eyes meant on Alyce.

The door closed. Alyce cast a sealing spell on it against eavesdropping and approached the Warden and Greagoir.

"They can't hear us," she told Howe. "Now do you really want to tell me what this is about?" she asked. "Surely you didn't come all the way here to play with my step-son…"

Howe looked up at her, slender ebony eyebrows cocked in surprise. "You've adopted him? I would not expect a mage to do so."

"Why?" Alyce snapped. "Because Neria didn't? Why this sudden interest in Greagoir? After all this time?"

Howe stood, facing her squarely. He stood slightly taller than she, leading her to wonder whether he was doing so to intimidate her. When he spoke however, it was anything but intimidating, almost gentle; contradicting his menacing appearance.

"I know what Greagoir is," he said. "And before you shoot lightning at me, allow me to assure you that Greagoir's…_condition_ and origins are known only to a very select few, by necessity."

Alyce relaxed…only a little.

"And…?" she asked.

"And…" he echoed. "The Commander wished me to make contact with you, to convey her well wishes and ask whether there was anything you needed in order to care for…Greagoir."

"Bronto poop," Alyce snorted rudely. "You seriously do not expect me to believe that."

"Actually, yes I do," Howe replied easily. "The rather precipitous way in which you acquired Greagoir was not planned…in much the same way as the Commander herself acquired him." He held up his hand for her silence. She had been about to ask _how_ Greagoir had been found in the first place. "I understand from the Commander that Greagoir's birth-mother fully intended to care for him to an appropriate age," he told her gravely. "Circumstances dictated otherwise, the details of which I cannot go into here," he explained, much to Alyce's dissatisfaction.

"There are other considerations…" he added, "relating to the boy's…paternity."

Alyce parked her fists on her hips, cocking her head rather belligerently at the Warden. "Huh, yeah?" she murmured uncooperatively.

"There are very good reasons for concealing this information," Warden Howe said with a sigh. "The least being how this country's present monarch came to be associated with this child in the first place."

"'Associated'?" Alyce snorted. "That's one way of putting it." On the floor, Greagoir was piling up blocks almost as high as himself, paying particular attention to matching the colours as he went. His hair had darkened from the light brown to a colour resembling weathered oak, his eyes remaining a simple brown. Alyce could not remember what Neria's marsh witch had looked like, but Greagoir did not show much of a resemblance to his father, King Alistair. In appearance there was nothing remarkable about him…His smile was a little lopsided and he had a tendency towards cheekiness, but the King did not have a monopoly on charmingly crooked smiles or twinkling, mischievous eyes.

"There are other, more pressing reasons why the Commander wished to ensure that the child was secure," Howe continued. "At least until after the summer sitting of the Landsmeet."

"Why?" Alyce's eyes narrowed distrustfully. "What does the Landsmeet have to do with anything?"

"Politics, I'm afraid," Howe rolled his eyes, as though these 'politics' were a familiar adversary. "Though considering only a bare handful of people know about Greagoir's existence, we are hoping this will be a moot point."

"Lucky Greagoir doesn't look like his Majesty, huh?" Alyce snorted.

Howe smiled in appreciation. "Exactly."

The Warden looked down on Greagoir like an indulgent uncle. "The King takes a different view unfortunately," he sighed then looked up. "Ensuring he remains out of sight is even more of an imperative."

"Yeah, I _get_ that…" Alyce rolled her eyes. The two of them became aware of someone pounding on the door. "Are we done here?" she asked, jabbing a thumb towards the shaking door. At Warden Howe's nod, Alyce dispelled the glyph about the exit. It immediately popped open, Dagna practically falling through. Gathering herself, the dwarf turned to Alyce, bristling like a cat challenging itself in a mirror.

"You're being sent away!" Dagna accused her, blue eyes flashing.

"Yeah…apparently," Alyce sighed, thinking that this shouldn't be an issue. Irving hadn't told her where she was going…Knowing her luck it would be some shady Denerim magic shop or Redcliffe to entertain the mage-hating Arlessa. She had planned to finish up with the Grey Warden here and then return to the First Enchanter's office for more details. It just _figured _that Dagna would find out before she did.

"Highever!" Dagna screeched, pumping her fists at her. "You didn't tell me it was Highever!"

Alyce's mind went blank. She stared at Dagna fully five minutes before thought could return to her brain. _Highever__…__?_ Huh?

"When did they…?" she began and then her heart started to do little happy leaps in her rib cage at the thought of _Aunt__ Mildred__…__Morwenna __and__ the __girls__…__!__Fire-bombing__ Aidan __Cousland__…_

The practical side of her sent her a little mental reminder that she had still to confirm this detail with the First Enchanter.

_Yet__…_"Highever," she repeated, trying to be calm and casual in her response. She failed miserably. "Imagine, _ha-haaaaaaa_…!"

-oo-


	60. Revelation

A/N: Hm…Chapter 60 and I couldn't quite hit my target, but oh well…That said, I have been trying to get to this particular chapter in my head for so long that it is quite a relief that it's happened. Thanks for sticking with me so far folks. It's been wonderful having you along with me. This chapter isn't _quite_ the end…not yet…

-oo-

**Chapter 60 – Revelation**

_Him__…__again__…_When Alyce stepped out of the First Enchanter's office, _he_ was there. When she walked down the corridor to the stairwell, he _followed _her. She entered her room…he came in _with_ her. It wasn't as if it was her room exclusively, true. There were two other mages that shared the living space; a stentorian snorer called Markus and a woman from Orlais who liked to…_entertain._ Frequently and loudly. Still…Alyce tried closing the door on him, but a judicious and timely placing of his metal-shod foot prevented her from doing so.

When he followed her to the _wet_ room, she decided enough was enough and spun around; startling to find him barely a nose length away. Close enough to count his nose hairs Alyce blinked, confused by his proximity for a couple of seconds.

"Are you…Do you _have_ to stand so close?" she demanded, angling her head away.

Ser Bran's nose wiggled as he sniffed. He had a habit of tilting his head downward, looking out from underneath his eyelashes at people. Someone had once told him it made him look charmingly stern and he took every opportunity to employ the technique such that it became his default expression when addressing anyone at close range. Alyce quashed the urge to tell him it actually made him look like a mouse peering out from under a chair, waiting for the inevitable broom head to come crashing from the sky...

"I will be escorting you to Highever," he informed her; his tone of voice indicating how _thrilled_ he was with the idea.

Alyce frowned. "Not Ser Hanleigh?" she asked.

"Ser Hanleigh?" he echoed. "Why would he go?"

"Why should _you_?" she countered, thinking _oh,__ Dagna __is __not__ going __to __like__ this __one __bit__…_Because of course, Dagna had already stated that the Fade would freeze over before she would allow herself to be left behind at the Tower and to the mercy of an unknown, less than sympathetic-to-dwarves substitute mentor.

"Because the Knight Commander instructed me to," Ser Bran told her simply.

"Right. Right," Alyce took another step backwards. "Because if the Knight Commander instructed you to take a swan dive from the top of this Tower, you would."

"Of course," he responded, taking a matching step _forward._

"Will you…will you stop doing that!" she slapped at his breastplate, backing even further away.

"Why?" Ser Bran smirked. "Does it bother you?"

"Bronto poop," Alyce snorted. "You're a pain in the proverbial."

He stared at her. Nose to nose, Alyce could see the colour of his eyes; a kind of muddy green that would not have looked out of place on a toad or a tree lizard. Up close, Ser Bran was not as interesting viewed…say, from the other side of the Tower, with several half-metre thick walls between them. His pale Ferelden skin was dusted with ordinary freckles, matching his ordinary, slightly scruffy auburn hair. Despite the big armour, layers of embroidered cloth, chain mail, padding and the deepness of his voice, he was less intimidating than a horse fly. If he was trying to scare her, he was doing a very poor job of it.

"I really don't see what Ryan saw in you…" he grumbled at her, brows drawn downwards in a disapproving frown.

For the briefest moment, Alyce felt as though she had been plunged abruptly into ice water. Eyes widening, she attempted to read his expression – to discern the motive behind his words - but he had been taking lessons from Ser Ryan, it seemed. He had the Templar closed-expression almost perfected. It had also been the last thing she had expected to hear from _him_.

Closing the already scant distance between them, he growled, "You're not even pretty. You have no figure to speak of, you're bad tempered and you make no attempt whatsoever to be personable. To anyone. Why someone like Ryan would ever have thought…"

He took a sudden step away, running his gloved hand through his hair; a gesture that reminded her so much of Ser Ryan, that Alyce found an uncomfortable bubble forming in her throat.

"It's all a bit _stupid_…" Ser Bran muttered. Under his armour, his shoulders slumped. "_You__'__re _stupid…Irritating female…"

After a moment's silence Alyce reached out a hand…her fingers curling into her palm as though repelled by an invisible barrier around him.

"Where is he?" she asked instead, torn between wanting to know and reluctant to find out. He shrugged aggressively.

"Maker knows," Ser Bran told her coolly. "I am told that he did not…that he did not _survive_ being transported from the Tower."

Ser Bran looked over at the mage, expecting some kind of sarcastic, derogatory comment from her, but she said nothing. Only silence greeted his words. She stood still as a statue, mouth slightly agape and as pale as a cloud. _Huh__…__don__'__t__ tell__ me __she __actually __cared__…_

"His family have been informed," Ser Bran continued in the same, chilled voice, though it took on a sing-song quality as though having passed on this piece of information, the recipient of this news could take a very long, underwater swim in Lake Calenhad for all he cared.

"I understand you met them in Highever last visit…" he went on, snorting in disfavour, "They can't like you much. Anyway…" If his armour had pockets, he would have been stuffing his hands into them as he glared at the stone floor. "The other Templars and I held a bit of a service. Due to the severity of his crime, we were not permitted a formal send off."

Annoyed by her continuing silence, Ser Bran glared at her and then grasped her arm, giving her a hard shake. "Blasted idiot!" he hissed at her. "You were with him in Denerim! Could you not have prevented him from…bah!"

His cry of exasperation was accompanied by an abrupt shove. Alyce stumbled against the washstand, the pitcher and bowl teetered then crashed to the floor. Shards of ceramic scattered and bounced, a single shard slicing into the back of her hand.

"I can not and _will_ not believe that a man of Ser Ryan's standards and morals would ever succumb to such a low and base affiliation as he 'claimed'!" the Templar spat at her. "Not for anyone and certainly not for someone like _you._" Not content with this insult, Ser Bran aimed a kick at the washstand, snapping the nearest leg. The now unstable piece of furniture toppled onto the mage.

"Has a demon stolen your tongue?" Ser Bran accused her, attempting some kind of control over his temper. Having lost it in the first place was bad enough. Losing it in front of a mage…_this _mage at that, was worse.

"Ser Ryan's…dead?" her voice eventually emerged, small and childlike.

Ser Bran glared at her. "It's no wonder really that the Knight Commander wants you _out_ of this Tower..."

Alyce blinked up at him. Her mouth opened again, but there appeared to be something wrong with her brain. It refused to supply words for use. Fortunately Ser Bran supplied them for her.

"Oh yes. That's right," he said in a sneering tone. "You wouldn't know, would you? Well, if you find the corridors of this Tower chillier than usual, it will be because you weren't the first choice to be sent to Highever. Enchanter Petra was the recommended candidate. Not you. Something to do with being reliable, diplomatic and having formed a positive rapport with the people of Highever and Amaranthine…Who would have _guessed_ it?" he added, dripping sarcasm over the already wet floor.

"Huh. So it's just as well you're leaving. If the other mages hadn't disliked you before for being such a know-it-all, arrogant smart-pants, then they're definitely going to hate you now."

He loomed over her, holding up his closed fist.

"And do you know how much I care about that?" he asked, opening his hand to reveal…nothing. "About this much," he told her. One more sneer and Ser Bran turned to leave, boots crunching on the broken porcelain. The door slammed behind him.

-oo-

"Enchanter Giles did this for us…Is it not a tolerable likeness in your opinion?"

Alyce forced her attention back to the very clever charcoal sketch of Greagoir in Owain's hand. She had to admit, it was a very good rendering of the human limpet. The last two months had passed in a blur and she was tired…so very, very _tired_…Ser Bran's prediction that her popularity would fall to an all-time low had been highly accurate. It hadn't mattered to Alyce. Not personally. Her apprentices may have requested to be assigned another mentor but as far as she was concerned, it freed up her time to do more important things. As for the glares, snipes and cold stares from the other mages…_well, __it__ wasn__'__t __as __if __I__ wasn__'__t__ used __to __that__ sort__ of __thing __already._ Neria had been the popular one - not she - and Alyce had grown up being resented by the other apprentices for being one of the exclusive two selected to be the lovely elf's friends. _What__'__s__ one __more __reason__ to__ hate__ me, __in__ the__ greater__ scheme __of__ things?_

What bothered her was the increased bullying Dagna had been subjected to (_and_ Ser Hanleigh by extension). Her dwarf apprentice had not said anything, but Alyce simply _knew._ For Dagna's sake, they could not leave the Tower fast enough.

There was also Greagoir. The god child's second birthday (or as close as they could figure it was his birthday) had come and gone and his expanding two-year old mind could not understand why the people he smiled at did not smile back. Not particularly chatty to begin with, he was slowly becoming more and more reserved and unwilling to engage with few others in the stuffy Tower environment, preferring a small circle of company that consisted of herself, Dagna, Torrin and on occasion, Owain and Ser Hanleigh when time and duties would permit.

As their leave date approached, Alyce's reluctance to go to Highever had increased, but her misgivings paled in comparison to her apprentice and step-son's current predicaments. There was no question of stepping down in deference to Petra…_Have __I__ said__ how__ much__ I__ loathe__ mages__…__?_

And the tiredness was caused by…Well, sleep had never been her friend either and the nightmares about Flemeth had not abated. If anything they had taken on an even darker turn, except that instead of the nightly feasts on innocent children, the old marsh witch – who sometimes took on the form of a dragon in her dreams – stood atop a mountain of bloodied skulls, talons curled around the lacerated and lifeless body of…

"Enchanter Amell?"

Alyce gave herself a shake; mental and physical. It was bad enough _dreaming _of Ser Ryan and Flemeth, she didn't have to think about them during daylight hours as well…

Owain peered at her expectantly, clearly awaiting some kind of response from her and with tiny feet balanced on the toes of her half-boots, Greagoir tugged at her robe insistently. Alyce stroked the top of his head absentmindedly, resting her gaze on the Tranquil.

"I'm sorry, were you saying…something?" she asked, grimacing.

Owain's spidery eyebrows lifted and he began patiently and deliberately repeating his instructions. Highever - and she – would be well placed to the harbours of the capital and Amaranthine. Owain had explained to her that he had spent a number of months attempting to convince the First Enchanter that his man overseeing the import and export of magical goods through both these ports needed support. Now that she was being sent to the area, Owain did not want to waste the opportunity.

"And of course, this is for Greagoir…" Owain surprised her by producing another bobble hat from somewhere about his person. "The winters will be cold in Highever," he admonished her. "I would also appreciate it if you can send Greagoir's head measurements to me on a regular basis. It would not do for the child to grow out of his warm clothes when he needs them most…"

"Owain…" Alyce began, taken aback. "Are you…? Are you saying you're going to _miss _Greagoir?"

The Tranquil looked at her as though she had just suggested gluing sheep's wool to the top of his head and offer his services as a trained lapdog to the Knight Commander.

"'Missing' implies an emotional attachment, Enchanter Amell," he explained in his patient, painstakingly careful voice. "As Tranquil, we no longer have the ability to harbour such unwieldy sentiments. I believe we have covered this topic in discussion about the benefits of the Tranquil state on many previous occasions."

_Have__ I__ just __been __one-upped__ by __a __Tranquil__…_Alyce wondered, searching Owain's bland features and finding nothing to suggest he was attempting to mock her.

"Huh…" she murmured, not particularly convinced because Tranquil were sneaky that way and because Greagoir had added more urgency to the robe-tugging.

"The child represents a great deal of potential," Owain continued to explain. "My interest is purely professional."

"Uh huh…" Alyce murmured again, her eyes drifting downwards.

"You will provide regular updates of his progress, in addition to the measurements I have just requested," Owain said, now addressing the dust motes behind her ear. "I would be most disappointed to find that his education was not meeting our expectations."

"Uh _huh__…_" She bent her head, rolling her eyes. Looking down at Greagoir, she realised he was tugging and pointing. Following the direction of his jabbing finger, Alyce raised her eyes to the stockroom exit. Dagna had arrived. Sandwiched between two, familiar tall figures, the dwarf looked deeply uncomfortable, wringing her hands nervously. The half-smile for both Owain and Greagoir departed.

_The__ First__ Enchanter_ and_ the __Knight__ Commander__…_

By the look of the Knight Commander, it appeared he had arrived to personally ensure that she _really_ did leave the Tower. The expression on the First Enchanter's deeply-lined face was completely neutral. _Intepretation:__ Mr__ and __Mrs__ Enchanter__-Commander__ appear__ to__ have__ had__ another__ spat__ …_Alyce thought glumly, casting Dagna as reassuring a look as she could manage.

The First Enchanter was the first to move. Brushing past the dwarf, he approached Greagoir, kneeling in front of the little boy.

"Well now, young man…" Irving murmured, patting the top of the toddler's head. "You have quite the adventure ahead of you."

Irving straightened with difficulty, grunting upright. "It appears we've come full-circle…if you will excuse the pun," Irving told her.

Alyce frowned. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"I remember a day…some years ago, informing a certain mage apprentice the very sad news that our king has passed away. In this instance however, the king has passed _on._"

A rhythmic metallic clanking heralded the Knight Commander. Even his walk sounded disapproving. "You needn't be so dramatic, Irving," the Knight Commander growled. "You make it sound as though tragedy has befallen King Alistair, when in actual fact, the situation has been anything _but _tragic."

"When one has lived surrounded by cold, grey walls for as long as I have, Greagoir," Irving chuckled. "One finds excitement wherever one can."

"Hmph," the Knight Commander snorted. "I would prefer no excitement at all, First Enchanter." The Senior Templar turned to Alyce. Eyes glittering with the light of triumph, he told her, "The summer Landsmeet have given their agreement for King Alistair to abdicate the throne…in favour of the Teyrn of Highever."

Alyce's jaw dropped. She could hear it hit Owain's pristine stone flagging.

"I hope you realise what an honour you have been granted by Highever," the Knight Commander added sternly, scowling down his nose at her. "Though, let me make this _absolutely_ clear: this is not a _royal_ appointment by any means. You remain under the authority of the Circle, should you take it in your head to think _otherwise_."

Unable to find the words, Alyce shook her head vigorously. Irving laughed again. "Come now Greagoir," he said soothingly. "You need not cast dark clouds on this happy occasion." Taking the younger Greagoir by the hand, the First Enchanter first winked at Alyce, then led the god child towards Dagna. A tense silence followed, causing Alyce to feel like one of Senior Enchanter Ines' many botanical specimens, being examined far too closely for identification purposes…She couldn't decide which topic to tackle first…The King or…the _King__…_"

"Don't make me regret my decision to send you," Knight Commander Greagoir said quietly, narrowing his eyes at her and forestalling verbalisation of any of her internal dialogue.

He had turned away, but paused, even more briefly.

"My regards to your Aunt, by the way," he murmured in a voice that was barely audible. Stunned into silence again, Alyce watched the Knight Commander stride away. He was almost at the exit when her tongue loosened enough to shout.

"Knight Commander!"

Forcing her feet to move, she approached him. The First Enchanter, young Greagoir and Dagna had moved on. Having collected the packs Owain's Tranquil minions had prepared for them, they had headed for the ground floor and main doors. Owain too had returned to whatever tasks Owain did in the stockroom. At this time of the day, the apprentices were in class and there was little activity in the hallways outside. It was relatively quiet.

The Knight Commander cocked his head, unwilling to fully acknowledge her call.

"I…I never thanked you," Alyce told him. "For the arrangement you put in place for Aunt Mildred…with Mother Mallol."

"What of it?" the Knight Commander snapped impatiently. Alyce smiled, her heart lifting for some reason at the cold, clipped tones of his voice.

"Thank you," she said in a trembling voice. "Thank you for remembering Aunt Mildred."

At this angle, Alyce thought she saw a muscle twitch in Knight Commander Greagoir's cheek. A smile? She doubted it. It was quite possible that he, like every other Templar in the Tower resented her for her part in Ser Ryan's…downfall and demise, but thanks needed to be given all the same. Removing herself from his sight, along with the dwarf that he disapproved of and the inconvenience the presence of a small child posed would make up part of that thanks, she hoped.

The Knight Commander raised his head, staring straight ahead.

"He had faith in you, mage…" was all he said, before stepping through the exit and was gone from sight.

-oo-


	61. Journey

A/N: Yar, and sorry this chapter has taken so long to get to you lovely folks. Been doing (ahem) 'other' things…Geez, you'd think having a full-time job, husband, small child and an unhealthy obsession with the PS3 would keep me out of mischief, but nooooo…

And um, so…chapter…

-oo-

**Chapter 61 – Journey**

"No…it's 'BOAT': The Brotherhood Against Orlesian Templars…!"

Alyce looked towards the direction of the voices heading up the hill. She had been busy extracting Greagoir from another kind of boat; in her case, the floating kind and had not heard the start of the conversation. As it was, she was only managing to follow snippets and keep track of the Templar and dwarf while trying to lever Greagoir's bear trap hold from the ferry's ropes. Not only had Greagoir charmed the boatman and his crew, but the tentacled lake creature had shown far too much interest in Greagoir for Alyce's peace of mind, following them from the Tower of Magi – a good day's journey via boat - to the northernmost tip of Lake Calenhad. She swore she could see a tentacle slapping the water in the distance even now. It was still out there…_waiting_ for them.

"Heh, heh, you had better watch your lad, mother." One of the men; a scarred, sun-darkened elf called Derry chuckled at them. "He'll stow away one of these days. Next thing you'll hear he's some pirate out of Rivain…"

"Uh huh…" Alyce laughed uncomfortably. _A __god__ pirate__…_That would be a first. She wasn't too sure she wanted to set that precedent…

Adjusting her shoulder pack, she swung Greagoir onto a hip. She peered across the ferry dock, no longer able to hear or see Dagna, but she was sure she caught sight of Ser Bran's peevish Templar armour through the crowd. They appeared to be heading towards the inn at the top of the slope. Alyce hurried along the dock. On her way she brushed against a couple of peasant women. One turned, both recoiled, the first giving her a _look _that was all too familiar.

Alyce grimaced apologetically, stepping around them.

"Huh, you look where you're going, harlot!" the second one growled at her back. Alyce frowned and continued on, the voices of the women dogging her steps.

"_Is that a mage? Thought they were allowed anywhere near children…"_

"_It__ shouldn__'__t __be __allowed._ _No__ good__ will__ come__ of __that. __You __mark __my __words.__"_

"_Unless it's a mage child…"_

"_You thought it looked funny too? I thought as much!"_

"…mama…" Greagoir whispered, looking up at her with wide and worried brown eyes.

"Ignore them, Greagoir," she told him, stroking his back soothingly. "With any luck, they'll fall off the end of the pier…" _Stupid __old __bats__…__As __if __someone __Greagoir__'__s __age __couldn__'__t __understand!_ What was _with _these people? Unwilling to waste any more energy on the gossiping old biddies, Alyce completed her trip up the slope.

She found her apprentice and the Templar standing on the other side of the road, just outside the smithy. They were _still_ arguing. Bracing her shoulders, she stepped up to them. "Hey, you two. Don't make me…" she started, but no one appeared to be listening.

"It doesn't spell boat, you _numptie_," Dagna scoffed. "That's '_baot_' and not a word at all."

"It's _symbolism,_" Ser Bran argued. "Something I don't expect the likes of _you_ to understand."

"Symbolism of _what?_" Dagna demanded, chin in the air. Ser Bran had had his back turned towards Alyce, but she could _hear_ his eyes roll in his head.

"Sending the Orlesians back to where they came from, _dwarf_!"

Dagna tittered at Ser Bran, the sound causing Alyce to sigh in exasperation. "You too…can you please just stop…"

"Why would they go back in _boats_?" Dagna retorted in a mocking voice. "Orlais lies westward. Across _land._ That's L.A.N.D, in case you're wondering."

"I told you," Ser Bran's _shoulders_ looked affronted. "It's _symbolic._"

Alyce did not know what Dagna said next. A long shadow detached itself from the narrow space between the inn and the smithy, arresting her attention and keeping it confined until further notice. She did not need the sunlight falling upon his stamped black leather armour or the long, elegant bow strapped to his back to identify him. Nor did she make any attempt to approach him. She remained where she was, anchoring herself to Dagna and Ser Bran's arguing voices…

"I really don't expect a _dwarf _to understand…"

"What's there to understand?" Dagna demanded. "You just need to _spell_. Something you clearly have not learned to do. What do they teach you at Templar school, honestly?"

"Everything dwarf schools _don__'__t,_" Ser Bran retorted more than a touch defensively.

"Well then," Dagna began with another toss of her head. "Spell the word 'boat' again. Go on. And by the way, when you do, tell me what each letter stands for. In _sequence._"

Alyce forced herself to focus on the Templar and dwarf, well aware that the Grey Warden's glacier blue eyes were fixed on their party, his expression carefully neutral. On the other hand, Ser Bran was clearly struggling with an appropriate response. Alyce could see his brain overheating; if the red flush sweeping up from the neckline of his tunic to embrace his ears was any indication.

"It's not…I'm…it…Don't you _ever _stop talking dwarf?" he changed the subject abruptly. "You irritating gabber-wort!"

"_Sure__…_" Dagna sniffed fastidiously at him. Behind her half-lowered lids, they twinkled in triumph. "I will contribute my hard-earned funds to your 'Brotherhood of _Orlesians__ Against_ Templars' when you learn how to put together an acronym that actually makes sense!"

"Orlesians against…!" Ser Bran stuttered incoherently. Dagna stepped away – she had not seen the Grey Warden – heading towards the stables and their pile of meagre belongings. Ser Bran however, _did_ catch sight of the Grey Warden. To Alyce's eyes, he appeared to turn an even darker shade of red. By the time Alyce debated whether to ignore the Grey Warden however, he was already too close to pretend she hadn't seen him.

"Ah…" Alyce _did_ pretend to have difficulty remembering his name. "Warden…Howard, wasn't it?"

The Grey Warden bestowed an indulgent smile upon both Templar and Mage.

"Howe," he corrected. "This is indeed a happy coincidence. _Mistress _Amell," he supplemented the smile with a greeting smooth as warm cream. Alyce cringed at the 'mistress' title. "What brings you and your companions to this part of the country on such a lovely Ferelden summer's day?"

"Jam scones," Alyce answered promptly. "I hear they're particularly good in this part of the country."

As Howe grinned at her, Alyce slid a look towards Ser Bran. The Templar appeared to have become very concerned by a sudden and fortuitous scuff on the top of his boot. Alyce made a face at him. Clearly, she could not expect any support from the Templar. Facing Warden Howe squarely she threw his question back at him.

"And you?" she asked. "How did you come to be racketing about the countryside?"

"Ah, well," Howe chuckled good-naturedly. "As it happens, I am travelling to Highever on my way to Soldier's Peak."

"No. _Really_?" _How __thrilling!_

"Perhaps this is providence," Howe continued, without a single verbal trip or stumble. "If our paths are destined to be tied to the north of the country at this time, would you consider pooling our resources to travel together?"

"Ooh," Alyce told him with more artificial enthusiasm than could be found on an Orlesian's party hat. "_Let__'__s_."

Alyce chanced another look at the Templar. He was _whistling_ quietly under his breath now; confirming her suspicion that he had known exactly who would be waiting for them on this side of the lake. The question was, had it been the First Enchanter or the Knight Commander that had arranged for a Grey Warden to accompany them to Highever? Even had it been written in blood upon Ser Bran's cold, dead forehead, she would not have believed that the Warden was here _merely_ en route to whatever place in Highever he had planned to visit. To be honest, the thought of writing _anything_ on Ser Bran's cold, dark corpse was very appealing about now.

She raised a hand, tiny flames erupting from each fingertip…

Greagoir leant over and blew them out.

"Spoilsport," she grumbled.

"No fy!" Greagoir scolded her. Howe chuckled and grasped her elbow, gesturing towards the open inn doors.

"Shall we adjourn to the _Wardens__' __Rest_?" he suggested. "I understand they have quite a reputation for jam scones."

"Yeah," Alyce could not muster any more enthusiasm; her annual stockpile having just been depleted. "Let's get this over and done with."

-oo-

"Poke!"

The…_beast _that Ser Bran had managed to procure using the very powerful name of the Knight Commander of Ferelden flared its generous nostrils and started forward again. The four-legged carpet bag might have had a majestic, regal name for all they knew, but as far as they were all concerned, it was 'Poke' now, owing to Ser Bran's short temper and Greagoir's ability to pick random words out of sentences for adoption. It didn't help that every time the pony stopped to contemplate its knobbly, scarred knees, all anyone had to do was yell 'poke' and it would move again.

Warden Howe had been scouting ahead and had returned, just in time to catch Poke pausing for yet another review of their surroundings. He jogged towards Alyce, skilfully evading Greagoir and Dagna as they chased each other through the pony's legs.

"We should break for camp soon," Howe murmured quietly, falling into step beside her. His eyes scanned the darkening horizon. "We might be within a patrolled area, but a busy road is popular pickings for bandits."

Alyce gave the Warden a sidelong look. Should she tell him she had actually been looking forward to meeting some bandits? It had been too long since she'd shot lightning at anyone and her magic was getting kind of _itchy_. Still…she threw a look over her shoulder. Greagoir and Dagna whizzed past; Greagoir giggling with almost hysterial glee. Some way behind the tiny covered cart was Ser Bran, not so much whizzing as wheezing. The Templar had refused to abandon any part of his official Templar uniform and he had been slow-cooking under the Ferelden summer sky, unable to find any relief in either the shady forests or the sea breezes blowing across the dunes.

_An over-tired child and a Templar about to expire from heat exhaustion…Do I have a choice?_

"Sure…" Alyce nodded, looking about the surrounding countryside for a likely spot to pitch their tents. Her search was accompanied by miserable clanking from behind them.

"Why are we stopping, mage?" Ser Bran demanded, labouring for breath. He leant heavily on the side of the cart, almost falling when Poke made another surge forwards. "Highever Town is not far," he added. "We can…"

"Stand fast citizens!"

Ser Bran straightened, reaching for his broadsword the same time as Howe unslung his bow. The Grey Warden was prepared before Ser Bran, having nocked an arrow and taking aim in the mere seconds it took the Templar to remove his sword from its scabbard.

"I wouldn't if I were you," the voice warned them. Howe swung his arrow to their left, homing in on the direction of the voice. "All you have to do is cooperate and…_what_?"

_Whisper, whisper, whisper…_

"What?"

_Whisper, whisper…WHISPER!_

"Maker's billiard balls, _really_?"

Alyce didn't need to use her mage staff. A fireball was a fireball. It never needed to be aimed. It just needed to be big and burny enough. When hers hit the dune, three figures exploded from it, patting various enflamed parts of their bodies. One of them lost his balance, rolling down the incline towards the road. Alyce stepped forward, hands aflame. The bandit looked up, squeaked and scrabbled in the sand, attempting to stand. It seemed to Warden Howe that the three bandits appeared to be covering their _privates _when they ran away.

They turned out to be _very_ fast runners.

Howe looked at the mage; dusting her fingers on her travel-stained robes. He cleared his throat. "They appear to have known you, Mistress Amell."

Alyce rolled her eyes. "Let's just say I made an _impression_ on them," she said. "The last time we were - sort of - in the area." She began tugging Poke off the road. Jerking her head towards the surrounding dunes she added, "Camp over here alright?"

"Um…yes?" Howe said eventually.

-oo-

_Laughter__…__and__ the __same__ face __over __and __over. __Bloodied, __bruised __and __battered __almost __unrecognisable__…__Eyes __stared __dead, __cold__…__Dark __hair__ spilled__ across __the __ground, __moonlit __strands __of __silver __and __sable __intertwined__ with __bleached __bones __and __broken __rock__…__and __the __cackling, __like __thunder __pressing __in __on __her __ears, __unrelenting. __The__ air __sucked__ out __of __her __lungs,__ her __heart __struggled __to __find __its __next __beat__…__SPLAT!_

Alyce woke with a jerk and a gasp. It took several seconds before she realised she had not been in the Fade, but had only been dreaming. Another nightmare. She removed Dagna's arm from her face and sat up. The wind had picked up; the canvas of their tent flapping against the ropes. Through the narrow gap between the loosely tied canvas Alyce could see the faint glow of a new sun. Feeling it pointless to attempt to go back to sleep this close to dawn, Alyce disentangled herself from the blankets and exited the tent.

She was met outside with a stinging gust of wind and sand. Blinking grit from her eyes, Alyce rummaged through her shoulder pack for her water skin, finding it almost empty. Looping it over an arm, she stood and surveyed the camp area. Howe had mentioned some kind of stream last night. Since she was up early, she could fill the water skin and maybe try and wash as much of the travel dirt from her skin. Sleeping in dust-caked clothes had been uncomfortable, but she reminded herself that this was the nature of travel. Their party had always intended to journey lightly. Carrying a tin bath, fluffy flannels and a collection of scented bath oils along with their essential food stores, clothing, equipment and crates of medicinal stores prepared months in advance was never going to be a practical notion.

So…splashing her face in a shallow stream was going to be the best she could hope for. Heading towards the direction Howe had indicated, Alyce picked her way across the campsite. She thought she could see a thin, glistening ribbon of water somewhere near the bottom of the slope. Listening carefully, she could definitely make out the soft sound of running water. She strode forward…pausing at an elderly oak.

She took a deep breath. "Finally left the armour behind Ser Bran?" she asked the darkness.

A dark head appeared from the side of the trunk. The Templar did not look happy, but when did Ser Bran ever look happy?

"Nightmare again, Amell?" he growled at her.

Alyce returned his glare.

Ser Bran stepped out completely from behind the tree. "You know what Templars need to do to mages when they have nightmares?" he asked.

"Wake them up?" Alyce raised an enquiring eyebrow, bored with the conversation. She really did not want to talk to _this _Templar. "Make them a soothing cup of camomile tea perhaps? No? Not even a bed time story?"

"Mages can't be trusted not to turn into abominations," Ser Bran reminded her.

"No. You're absolutely right," Alyce agreed. "They can't. Just like Templars can't be trusted not to be complete horses' arses."

"Think you're funny, do you?" Ser Bran snarled.

Alyce sighed, taking up position at an adjacent tree. "Alright Ser Bran," she faced him directly. "You have a beef with me. Spill your guts!"

"I am merely cautioning you against…"

"How stupid do you think I am?" she demanded angrily, knowing _exactly_ why Ser Bran kept wanting to accost her…

"_This is __your __fault_!" he yelled loud enough to wake not just their campful of people, but every camp along the entire North Road.

"Golly," Alyce told him acidly. _Yep.__ This __old __chestnut__…_she thought resentfully. Ser Bran might continue to blame her for Ser Ryan's misfortune, but she hadn't recalled any of Ryan's so-called Templar friends attempting to help him. Oh no. It was all 'the will of The Maker' and 'the Knight Commander's word is his command'. She wanted to tell him it was a load of bollocks, but she was just _so __tired _of being dragged through the same subject over and over again. So she fixed her glare and spat, "So, Templars _do_ actually have feelings after all…"

Ser Bran seized her, the water skin flying into the dark. The neckline of her robes clutched in the Templar's twisting hands, Alyce struggled for air, dizzily aware that her mana was being drained. _What__'__s__ next? _she wondered. _A Holy__ Smite __and __a __quick __run-through __with__ the __Righteous __Blade __of __Righteousness?_

"He was my _friend__…_" Ser Bran gritted through his teeth, when a long-bladed dagger skimmed the top of his knuckles. The Templar jerked his head backwards, hissing as the dagger pressed up against his neck; a thin rivulet of deep red rolling down towards the narrow channel on the blade.

"Let the mage _go_, Ser Bran." There was no sugar or honey in the Warden's voice as he spoke this time; only ice and blood. The Templar hesitated only for a second longer and then his arms went slack, falling to his sides. Keeping one eye on the Templar, Warden Howe touched Alyce's arm in concern. "Are you harmed, Mistress Amell?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she raised her hand and struck Ser Bran hard across his left cheek.

"If I could have saved him, I would have," she told the Templar; her own voice edged with borrowed steel. "If I could have traded my life for his, I would have done that too. You have no idea how…how…" Alyce sighed, her anger and frustration at Ser Bran dissipating unusually rapidly. In the light of the rising sun, the pain in the Templar's eyes felt like the same pain in her chest; that dull persistent ache that refused to leave. "If there was some way to bring him back," she promised. "I…"

"You're a mage…" Bran said; almost a plea.

"I'm a mage…" Alyce admitted. "And I'm…" _I__'__m __useless. __I __couldn__'__t __save __Geraint __and __I __couldn__'__t __save __Ryan. __I __couldn__'__t __stop __the __Darkspawn __from __overwhelming __and__ defeating __the __King__'__s __soldiers __at __Ostagar. __I __couldn__'__t __save __that __one, __single __mabari__…__and __I __don__'__t __know__ how __to __stop __hurting._ "I'm…" _I__'__m__ also __not __a __blood __mage, __dammit__…__!__ Or__ an __abomination __like __Senior __Enchanter __Wynne__, with forbidden magic at my fingertips…__and __if __I __had __to __be__…_

"_DOWN!_" Warden Howe bellowed suddenly, shattering her thoughts. A great screech rent the air and the stench of burning flesh and sulphur made them gag. Something dark and heavy and _huge _swept overhead; the ponderous beat of leathery wings sounding like thunder. Talons skimmed the tree tops, raining leaves and branches on their heads. The dragon circled once and landed on the other side of the forest with a thud that shook the ground under their feet.

And in Alyce's tent, Greagoir woke and screamed.

-oo-


	62. Smile

A/N: Hm…running out of chapter titles…Must either listen to more daggy 80s music, or watch more Octonauts…That Captain Barnacles. What a polar bear, eh? Oh…chapter. Sorry. Here 'tis.

-oo-

**Chapter 62 – Smile**

Alyce ran, stumbling up the slope towards the camp. She stopped only for the briefest moment to hitch the leg-tangling skirt of her robe halfway up her thighs. Mage robes might have been designed to slow apostates down while being chased through marshy swamps like water fowl, but Alyce prided herself on being a little faster than the average apostate. Her long strides chewed up the ground; she skidded to an impressive halt in front of the tent just as Dagna was backing out of it. She could hear Greagoir sobbing inside.

"Dagna!" Alyce cried, her voice panicked.

Dagna lifted bleary eyes towards her mentor. She rubbed at one of them with the back of a hand. "S'Alright, Alyce. It's been sorted," she mumbled sleepily.

The dwarf extended her other hand, half open. It contained the squishy remains of something…squishy that did not used to be squishy, but chelatinous and antennae-ry. Alyce stared in befuddlement.

"Um." Alyce pointed. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah. Squashed it," Dagna yawned widely. "It woke Greagoir up. Half scared the pants off me, but I got the little blighter with my axe. See this bit here? Sheared clean off."

"Dagna…" Alyce sighed, dropping her head into her hands in disbelief. Pounding feet behind informed her Howe and Ser Bran had caught up. Clearly, neither had been particularly practiced in chasing apostates. In the case of Ser Bran, this was rather disappointing.

"Greagoir screamed because a _cockroach_ crawled on him?" Alyce enquired, just to be sure.

"Well…um…" Dagna flushed slightly. "The cockroach woke him up yes, but he screamed because I killed it. Wasn't too happy about it but…higher up in the food chain and all of that…" She peered up at Alyce. Her mentor was shaking her head; and why were her skirts tucked into her waistband like that? By the look on Ser Bran's face, Alyce's supporting appendages had turned into double abominations…or they might as well have. She yawned sourly at him.

Turning back to the men behind her, Alyce caught Ser Bran's gawping expression and scowled.

"Is the…Greagoir well?" Howe asked, moving the conversation forward.

"Sure," Dagna replied for her mentor. "Hey, what was that sound I heard earlier?" She turned to her mentor. "You haven't been branding bandits again have you?"

Alyce grimaced, partially due to the bandit reference, partially in half-relief. It was nice to think that the presence of the dragon was not the cause of Greagoir's distress, but that had as yet to be proven for certain. Not to mention…there was a _dragon_ within spitting distance…

Warden Howe placed a tentative hand on Alyce's shoulder. "I suggest we move, very quickly. The sooner we are out of the area, the better."

"Why?" Dagna asked, looking first to the Grey Warden and then at her mentor. She did not like the grim expression there. Or the hint of fear behind Alyce's grey eyes when she stared at the tent.

"There are villages nearby," Alyce stated. "Can we afford to leave them unprotected with a dragon in the area?"

"Dragon?" Dagna's eyes lit up like a bonfire. "There's a dragon? Where?"

"You aren't seriously thinking of chasing a _dragon _are you?" Ser Bran asked. His eyes finally moving upwards, away from Alyce's exposed lower limbs. "You must be mad!"

"Wait, a dragon?" Dagna repeated. "Seriously?"

Alyce turned on Ser Bran. "Isn't it your job to protect the local populace from magical creatures?" she demanded.

"It's my job to protect the local populace from _mages,_" the Templar corrected her, folding his arms obstinately.

"A real live dragon?" Dagna prodded Alyce in the arm. "_Really_?"

Alyce turned back to Howe. "Well, Grey Warden?" she asked, trying to see what lay behind the crystal blue of his eyes. Something was not…_right._ How many times had she passed through Highever and never even spotted so much as a pile of drake dung? Yet, here they all were, with _Greagoir_ in tow and 'suddenly' a dragon appears? Not only that but passing a critical eye over the two men and making a mental comparison…Ser Bran had clearly been out for a wander in the forest and a convenient tree to water. His feet were shod in his boots, but he was only dressed in tunic and breeches, his hair sleep-mussed and somewhat receding jaw shadowed with stubble.

Warden Howe on the other hand…was impeccable, from his perfectly clean leathers to his perfectly smooth, raven-black hair. If he'd been up all night, he'd spent some of the evening grooming himself…It was highly unlikely. He was fully armed with not a single arrow out of place. Alyce's experience of soldiers was not the vision Howe presented. The man might not be dressed in nobleman's garb, but he certainly gave the impression he might just be tripping off to a formal gathering any moment.

If he had stayed up on _watch,_ she had even more reason to think his appearance odd. Especially considering that she recalled quite perfectly that everyone had agreed no perimeter patrol would be necessary this close to Highever Castle. All that had been needed were some magical wards and trip-alarms for a good night's uninterrupted sleep.

Were she a paranoid person Alyce thought, she might have attempted to draw the conclusion that Howe had _known_ or even arranged for a dragon to be in the area. Just to see what kind of reaction a god baby might have.

_But that would just be silly. _

_Right?_

"My recommendation is to be away from here," Howe repeated; the only thing preventing Alyce from reaching that particular conclusion on her current train of thought. "Head to Highever Castle, alert the authorities and return with an army. Dragons are not to be tangled with lightly. It would be foolish to attempt to engage one unprepared."

"I'd like to add my support to that scheme," Ser Bran told her.

"Yes well," Alyce curled her lip at the Templar. "No one asked you."

"You would place your apprentice and child in danger for the sake of your curiosity?" Ser Bran asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Curiosity?" Alyce echoed. She shook her head. "Idiot. I'm talking about this creature rampaging through the countryside, setting summer-dry fields alight, destroying homes and killing people. By the time we go to Highever and then return, who knows what it might have done? How many people would have been killed or injured, properties ruined?"

The Templar looked uncomfortable, but unconvinced. "I don't see the point in creating trouble when there doesn't need to be," Ser Bran said carefully. "For all we know, it might move on and we won't need to do anything."

"And if it does?" Alyce asked. "You'd turn tail and run?"

Ser Bran planted his feet squarely to face the mage. "I am no coward, if that is your implication."

_Not a coward, maybe…a horses arse, definitely…_

"Or…" Dagna said hopefully in the intervening, tense silence that fell between mage and Templar, "we could just sneaky-sneaky over to this dragon…" she suggested. "For purely observational purposes of course, make sure it's up to no mischief, but…_Alyce._" Dagna clasped her mentor's arm in a vice grip, blue eyes wide and pleading. "Think about this: do you have _any _idea how much dragon scale fetches these days? Dragon _blood_? It's liquid gold!"

Alyce sighed, shaking her head in dismay. _Trust__ my__ dwarf__ to __tap__ into __her__ inner__ Lucrosian._ It was all she needed…

-oo-

Ser Bran was not happy. His plan had been to arrive at Highever Castle as soon as possible, deliver the mage and return to the Tower straight away (with a brief stop on the way back at Ser Ryan's famous Greenfell Arms for a cask of that most excellent red ale). He was – thankfully – not required to stay on and remain in charge of Amell and her irritating apprentice. The child he did not care about. It amused him that it was named after Old Man Greagoir and it was well-behaved for the most part. As long as Amell kept it from being underfoot, he was not going to concern himself with it.

This new development with the dragon was really quite irksome.

He really, really wanted to see it.

He really, really did not want the mage and her annoying apprentice to know that.

A dragon? It was the stuff of boyhood dreams; of knights in silver armour and epic battles to be made into legend by bards and minstrels. His overeager, inner child fought with his almost overwhelming desire to be rid of his charges and…won. The only consolation to his guilt in being overridden by his sense of duty was that Amell had changed into the shorter of her mage robes and he was enjoying the view. He hadn't thought that his old Tower friend Ser Ryan had been a connoisseur of shapely female legs, but it seemed he had been wrong.

Pity they were attached to the most irritating, aggravating, bothersome individual he had ever had the displeasure to have known.

And he refused to call her pretty.

_Damn__ Ser__ Ryan__…_!

"If you don't stop staring at my legs, Ser Bran," Amell hissed at him. "I'm going to set your eyeballs alight."

"Stop showing them then," Ser Bran shot back. "And why don't they have hair on them?"

Amell gaped at him. "Shut _up._" _He __likes__ hairy__ legs?__ Pervert__…_

"Shut up the both of you!" Howe recommended urgently on the other side of Alyce. "Unless you wish to provoke the creature."

The 'creature' he referred to was currently standing half a leg deep in sea water, wings folded tightly to its side. Its triangular head darted to and fro, following movement of prey beneath the water's surface. It had already caught one good-sized fish, tossing it up into the air and swallowing it whole. Nathaniel Howe watched it with a critical eye. This had not been the first dragon he had either seen or encountered; nor was it the largest. By his reckoning, it was a juvenile, female and hopefully on its way to warmer climes. The sunny Ferelden summer might have delayed its migration north; an unlucky circumstance for the Mage's travelling party. He sincerely hoped the creature had not been attracted to the god child.

That had been his main concern, which was why he insisted the child stay in camp. This was quite apart from the fact that children and large, snapping beasts did not mix.

His fear that the dragon might be…something else had hardly been alleviated. Dragons in his experience, tended to attract Darkspawn and he was here, lying stomach-down in amongst brambles and biting ants on a ledge high above the beach under _protest_. His Warden senses were stretched so tightly he could have played a tune on them. One eye he kept closely trained on the dragon. The other, he kept firmly on the mage. Neria had described her friend perfectly, though there was a brittleness to the young mage that the Commander had either missed or forgotten. He would have recognised Alyce Amell on sight however, even if he hadn't met her at the Tower of Magi, dressed in the unmistakeable garb of the Circle.

'Annoyed and bored', the Commander had told him. It had fit the mage, even if he had to admit to himself that he had been surprised by how sharp and knowing those grey eyes had been on first viewing. Or how fiercely stubborn she could be.

He hoped her insistence on checking on the dragon would not doom them all, but Maker she was talented. If the Commander had not taught him how to evade magical traps and protection fields, he would not be quite as intact as he was now. He was sorry to have missed her the first time she had visited Vigils Keep. The Commander would have been right: It would have been very difficult not to have conscripted the woman on sight. The only thing keeping him from doing it now in the absence of the Commander was – not the grumpy Templar accompanying them – but his own sense of self-preservation. He did not think he could invoke the Right of Conscription and then hope to survive afterwards, from either Amell or his Commander…the memory of his Commander laughing evilly as she warned him she would turn his privates into a money purse if he tried to recruit her mage friend prodding him helpfully in his head.

"So…that's a dragon…" Howe heard the Templar mutter. Again. The Grey Warden gave Ser Bran a sharp look, catching the mage in time as she leant a little too far forward.

"Be careful," Howe told her quietly. As he spoke the limestone ridge the three of them were perched upon shifted, sending a sandy cascade downwards. Not needing to be told twice, Alyce scooted backwards, putting a bit more space between herself and the edge. She was considering fusing it with ice or fire when the dragon suddenly spread its wings, giving a bellowing cry.

"Marvellous!" Ser Bran murmured, levering himself higher for a better look. The ridge cracked again. Then it disappeared from underneath the Templar's hand. For the barest moment Ser Bran appeared to float midair unsupported…before he plummeted head first towards the beach below. If the Templar had been clad in only his cloth layers, he would have ended up very bruised, slightly broken and more than a bit embarrassed at his clumsiness. Unfortunately for Ser Bran, he was wearing his Templar plate at the time of his unscheduled plunge and so clanged, banged and crashed his way down, bouncing from rock to rock then rolling to a messy stop barely metres from the dragon.

Above the beach on the crumbled ledge, Alyce and Nathaniel Howe began backing away.

"_Maker__'__s__ arse_…" Alyce heard the Grey Warden mutter under his breath, as the dragon's head whipped around and…_roared._

-oo-

Blue flame engulfed Ser Bran. He had not been wearing his helm because the day was shaping up to be another stinker and so had full view of the wall of fire that raced towards him. Unable to lift even an arm in a token gesture of self-defence, he knew without a doubt he was about to die. He expected his life to flash as lightning before him, expected an explosion of pain, to be followed briefly by his Fade-self detaching itself from his physical body. He closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable…would the Maker judge him worthy?

_Probably not…_

The Maker was after all, a bit of a fickle entity, with a habit of making square things pear-shaped when one least expected it.

So when…nothing actually happened, Ser Bran opened one eye.

_Damn…_

It was the mage…_Amell__…_standing over him. How she managed to get down to the beach so quickly, he had no idea, but she was…_sparkling_; diamond-bright motes of light and energy pouring off her in waves while the dragon, barely a vague outline backed away. It hurt his eyes to look at either of them, Ser Bran's head aching with the amount of magic Amell was siphoning through the Fade.

_So __this __is__ what__ the__ Knight__ Commander__ meant__…_Ser Bran thought muzzily as his brain began to shut down in increments. The dragon screeched. Beating its wings, it lunged for the mage. The world turned to ice. Ser Bran was dimly aware of frost forming along the edges of his armour and then a deep, long silence, empty of everything save the soft wash of the sea on sand.

_This is why…_

"Ser Bran! Can you walk?" He hated her voice too and the stupid questions she asked.

_No__…_he thought at her.

The world turned to solid grey.

-oo-

"By all that's holy…!"

Warden Howe circled the dragon. It was frozen in mid-flight; a sculpture of icy flesh and bone, glittering in the morning sunlight.

"Yeah, I didn't want to do that…" Howe heard the mage growl unhappily. "Stupid bloody Templar…" She ducked her head around the dragon's own, the top of her head knocking frozen draconic spittle from the creature's still-open maw. "Think you can help me out here?"

Giving himself a wake-up shake, Howe went to her side. He knelt down, admiring the brisk way she assessed the Templar's injuries. "At least Dagna'll be happy about getting her dragon scales…" she added, beginning to unhook straps and lifting off armour. "As for Ser Wheatgrass…I am never going to let him live this down…"

Howe paused from helping the mage remove the Templar's cuirass. Slender eyebrows curved, intrigued by the tone of her voice. "I sense some history there."

"No history," Alyce told him, brushing her hair off a cheek. "And you needn't worry that any perceived argument Ser Bran and I might have is likely to put any of us in danger." She gazed down at the Templar, her expression unreadable. "This particular incident aside, I think we can trust him to behave himself." She sighed. "He's just being a friend…" A small, pained groan emerged from the Templar at this point. Alyce flicked the end of the man's nose sharply, causing him to jump and yelp. "Bloody idiot."

Repressing a grin, Howe assisted her in removing the last of the Templar's armour. The mage worked fast and without any gentleness whatsoever, straightening a broken arm and popping a dislodged collar bone back into place with less than no consideration to the Templar's growing number of vocal protests. By the time she was finished however, her own complexion was ashen and she had difficulty standing, but insisted on returning to camp straight away. By mutual agreement, the plate armour would be left behind. Howe threw Ser Bran over a shoulder and began to stagger across the sand. He paused and turned at a sound behind him.

The mage stood in front of the dragon, one hand resting lightly on the frozen, dead snout. She appeared to be chanting…something, eyes closed. Howe edged a little closer, curious, just in time to hear what he thought was an apology.

It seemed he was doomed to be constantly surprised by the Warden Commander's old friend.

-oo-

"Ow!"

Alyce turned to find Ser Bran glaring at her apprentice…and her apprentice looking far too innocent and cherubic than could actually be believed. As Ser Bran wasn't about to admit that someone nearly half his size had bested him yet again, Alyce had to content herself with giving Dagna a stern look. She turned back, ignoring Dagna's offer of a blameless shrug. Their party was now in view of Castle Cousland's battlements and her stomach insisted on tying itself in knots, untying and then retying itself. She would have preferred it if her innards would just strangle her by choking her from the inside out. It would certainly save her the trouble of finding the right words to say to the Tremaynes.

She didn't like her chances of _staying __here_ and trying to avoid them. Perhaps if she disguised herself…?

_No,_she told herself firmly and as sternly as she would have told Dagna if she'd managed to catch the dwarf tripping up Ser Bran for the fifteenth time. _I__ have __to__ get__ this__ over__ with._ Once done, she can just…move on.

Right?

Right.

The great gates to Highever Town loomed nearby. Traffic along the main road had increased but Alyce did not notice; her gaze fixed on the castle's ramparts. The Cousland banner fluttered in the summer breeze like a determined salmon swimming upstream, indicating that the Teyrn – no, _King__'__s_ – family was presently at home. Fergus? Aidan? There had as yet to be a coronation for the new King Bryce the First. Perhaps Lady…? Princess…? Queen…? Queen Consort…? Eleanor was still in Denerim with her husband. _But__ if__ that __is __the __case, __then __the __banner __would __not __be __up__…_She supposed she would have to pay her respects…no, it would be _expected_ of her…

Dagna overtook her. So did Poke and the wagon with Greagoir perched on top with a basketful of apples beside him. When Ser Bran passed by, he gave her a funny look.

Alyce realised she had stopped walking.

"Alyce!" Dagna called. "Bramwyn's Bakery! I can see the sign!"

She couldn't move.

"Alyce…!"

The last time she had been here, he had been wearing the Cousland Guard armour.

_I can't do this…_

His hair had grown too long.

_I have to do this…_

He had looked so tired.

_I'm going to be ill…_

"I'm going to…" Alyce began, her throat suddenly constricted and hoarse. "It's…over there. You go…Go…Bread and…Later, I'll…" She did the first thing that came into her head.

She ran.

Vaguely aware of a shout following after her, Alyce heard the sound of running feet before pain exploded brightly in her head. _Bastard__'__s__ Holy __Smited__ me__…_she thought, picking herself up from the dusty ground and continuing to run. _What__'__s__ a __bit__ of__ a __headache__…__?_

The second time Ser Bran smote her, her legs collapsed from beneath her. She hit the ground, shoulder first, the bones in her neck making a nasty crunching noise. _I__'__m__ faster__ than __an__ apostate__…_she reminded herself. The third time Ser Bran cast a Holy Smite, Alyce's ears popped. Picking herself up yet again, she tasted blood in her mouth. She almost fell again as she stood, dizzy and disoriented. Forcing her legs to move, she stumbled onward, hardly aware of Ser Bran's last warning shout. _He__'__d__ have__ to __run__ out __of__ Smites__ sooner__ or__ later,_she tried to convince herself. _I__'__m__ faster__ than__ an __apostate__…_

She fell heavily against a wall…or a wooden fence. Alyce could not tell or care. _Let__ him__ kill__ me __this__ time__…_She did not know what Ser Bran did; the muscles in her back clenched in rigid agony. She whimpered, or at least thought she did. _How__ many__ of__ those__ things__ can__ a__ mage __take__…__?_

Alyce rounded a wall; some kind of high solid surface into a field of green. Barely able to see where she was going, she collided with something hard and sharp. _Why __am __I__ doing __this?__ Why __can__'__t__ I__ stop?_

"Alyce!"

The fourth - fifth? She was no longer sure - and last Holy Smite hit her square at the base of the neck. Her skin fizzed to the ends of her fingernails. She gasped for air. For one, single, brief moment her vision snapped into focus. The sky turned a proper blue. Every blade of grass appeared illuminated by sunlight; flickering, slender blades of green flame, blown gently by the breeze. Alyce swayed where she stood, no longer able to move, or think or breathe.

Brown skin…eyes the colour of warm chocolate…

_Bastard__ still__ needs __a__ bloody__ haircut__…_Alyce's brain told her before she toppled forward, unconscious.

And in the field, Ser Ryan…smiled.

-oo-


	63. Demon

A/N: Thank you everyone for reading so far! You're all incredibly, incredibly patient and I'm grateful you've stuck with this so long.

Phew…!

-oo

**Chapter 63 – Demon**

The smile was short-lived; turning directly into a grimace. A scowl followed swiftly after, deepening in intensity with tones of disapproval and worry. Ser Ryan's happy surprise at seeing Alyce and Ser Bran disintegrated as rapidly as it had appeared; thoughts of reaching the mage's side as quickly as possible overtaking everything else. A quick assessment did not reassure him. Her skin was chilled, clammy and translucent grey; spidery veins too visible on her dirt-marked cheeks and the exposed flesh of her shoulders. Ryan's hands clenched into fists; he deliberately uncurled them in an attempt to funnel his anger into more productive avenues. It appeared to be working. His first impulse had been to throttle Bran, but the practical side of him was remaining dominant, checking Amell for a pulse and trying to make her as comfortable as possible…given the circumstances.

Meanwhile, hovering uselessly nearby, Ser Bran fidgeted, nervous; babbling in disjointed sentences.

"I…you're…you're supposed to be dead!" the Templar managed to string a few loosely related words together eventually.

"A tad excessive this, wouldn't you think?" came the response. Ryan did not raise his head, turning the mage onto her back and brushing the dirt and leaves from her hair.

Breathless, confused and in a great deal of pain from his injuries still, Ser Bran failed to catch the hard edge to his old friend's voice, nor did he notice the deliberate care Ser Ryan took when he moved Amell.

"She ran," Ser Bran replied automatically then: "You're supposed to be dead!"

Ser Ryan's head snapped upwards, fury blazing in his dark eyes. "I am not," he growled. "Thanks to _this_ mage!"

"But she…ran…" Ser Bran passed a shaking hand over his face.

"How many times did you strike her, Ser Bran?" Ser Ryan asked him in a clipped, carefully restrained voice.

"I…I can't remember," Ser Bran lied. _The__ man __was__ dead__…__The __Knight__ Commander __had__ told__ them __all__…__And__ yet,__ here __he__ was__…_Ser Bran was…happy…? He was, really. He was also rather afraid. The fifteen years he had known Ser Ryan, he had never actually seen the man angry. Annoyed; irritated perhaps; exasperated when the occasion demanded it, but not…_this._ His gaze moved to the mage lying too still on the ground. _Maker__'__s__ balls__…_His first thought was that she had intended to flee. What he had done had been ingrained in him; to do what he had been trained to do. To stop her at all cost.

_She could have stopped. Why didn't she stop?_

"I should…I should get the dwarf…" Ser Bran suggested.

"You do that."

Ser Bran fled.

-oo-

_Lyrium__…_and some other sound. Was it…cackling? _Lyrium __isn__'__t__ a__ sound._ Crackling? Something was breaking. _Something__ has __broken._ She couldn't feel much, but her ears did not seem to be working particularly efficiently either. _Am__ I__ broken? __Wait,__ am __I__ dead? __Is __this __the __Fade? _If it was, it was not the Fade that she was familiar with. There was a distinct lack of…anything…except the horrible taste of lyrium in her mouth. _Ah,__ lyrium.__ That__'__s__ what __it__ is._

She hated lyrium. _Nasty __stuff.__ Tastes__ like __dirt.__ Have __I__ ever__ said__ it__ tasted__ like __dirt? __Well__ it __does __and__…_Her eyes sprang open involuntarily. Light stung her eyes. The air felt sharp and cold in her nostrils. Everything hurt and also _everything_ hurt. While she was on the subject, everything _hurt._ A lot. Tentatively, she reached out in her head, prodding at the Fade she _did_ know. A quick rejuvenation spell and sensation began to return.

This was not necessarily a good thing.

Her eyes slowly and painfully came back to some kind of working order. Formerly a wash of dark colour surrounding her, Alyce began to be able to pick out shapes within the indistinct blob she felt encased in; and then distinguish different colours, tones and then highlights. Control of her body now; that was a completely separate problem she promised herself she would deal with. Later.

Much later.

Possibly the next Age…?

The colours shimmered and shifted along with the air around her, tickling the fine hairs along her arms and face. Something was wrong.

Again. _I__'__m__ kind__ of__ getting __tired__ of __that__…_

Alyce remembered what happened; the events leading up to…here? _And__ when__ I__ see __that__ sorry__ excuse __for__ a__ Templar __again,__ I__'__m__ going __to __rearrange __him__…_She'd been Holy Smited before. _Holy__ Smoted?__ Holy__ Smitten__…__Holy__ Smirked__…__Holy__ Snuffed__…__Holy__…_

"Holy Andraste's little pink doodahs!"

She bolted upright, her face scrunching into a rictus of pain and dizziness. For a moment confusion reigned. She could not quite work out which way was _up _exactly and the pair of dark eyes twinkling in amusement in front of her appeared suspended without a face to accompany them, until her brain supplied the rest. Ears included.

"I see you're up."

Fire erupted about her hands as she lifted them high. "Back!" she yelped. "Back demon!" It dared to take the guise of a friend? It must be a desire demon…"I will make no covenant with the likes of you!"

The demon chuckled. With an uncomfortable squeeze of the air around her, it snuffed her flame, draining her of all but the most essential life-sustaining magic. Claws curled about her shoulders, pressing her backwards. She resisted.

"I am no demon, Alyce," the demon tried to convince her, but she was not convinced. Oh no. _Think__ I__'__m __stupid __do__ you?_ She thought fiercely at it, fighting back tears in her head. _Horrible,__ mean__ demon__…_It was so unfair that of all people to steal a form from, it had to be _him._ With the stupid hair and that stupid stubble and his stupidly beautiful face. Everything perfectly like him, down to the rich, deep voice that caused her _ears _to quiver. _Ears__ should _not_ quiver.__ That__'__s__ so__ wrong!_

"Stupid ears…" she muttered. Curling her lip at the demon, she showed it her fist. Just a warning. She might not have a lot of magic at the moment, but she still had _that._ And a sharp knee. And when she found where she kept her sharp knee, she would use it on whatever the demon had to put her sharp knee into.

Rather sharply.

"Go back to sleep, Alyce."

The demon kissed her.

_Bastard __demon__…_It even kissed like _him._

-oo-

"Ho there!"

Alyce next came awake with a sudden jerk. Every muscle in her body appeared to tighten in different directions. She felt like a lump of dough being kneaded and then formed into one of those glazed plaited rolls.

And then squashed by an elephant.

"Ow…bloody ow…"

"Golly, still in pain?" Dagna set something down beside her. It made an unusually loud noise. Turning, Alyce saw only a tray with a bowl and a spoon and not a mess of dragons post-collision beside her (because that was certainly what it had _sounded _like). "Ser Ryan says it'll be a couple more days until you're back to yourself." The dwarf grimaced apologetically. Alyce grabbed Dagna and gave her a shake.

"Don't trust it!" Alyce hissed urgently. "It's a demon! Don't do anything it wants you to. Cake!"

Dagna sighed sadly, curling straw-stiff strands of Alyce's hair behind her ears. "I wouldn't recommend cake right now," she counselled gently, "but I have stew. Do you want me to feed you?" she asked. "Or do you think you can manage yourself?"

"Where is _Ser_ Bran?" Alyce demanded, teeth grinding.

"In hiding," Dagna told her. She picked up the spoon. "So. Food?"

"How long…" Alyce began. "Maker's nut meat," she exclaimed suddenly. "Mother Mallol! I was supposed to…"

"It's all been taken care of," Dagna assured her. "The Revered Mother knows you're indisposed and she's okay with that. Prickling stone…" Dagna chuckled evilly. "You should have seen Ser Ryan tearing strips off Bran. I think I'm in love with this Divine Ryan of yours…He's not so bad for an older man."

Alyce pushed the spoon and its contents away impatiently. "Dagna. This is dangerous talk. You shouldn't be consorting with…Look, it's…what do you mean 'older man'? Isn't Ser Hanleigh older?"

"Older? No. Really?" Dagna blinked at her in disbelief. There was definitely more than a touch of sarcasm in those fluttering eyelids. "Golly! Ser Ryan looks _much_ older. He's practically _grandfatherly._ All that salt and pepper in his hair." Alyce frowned at her apprentice. Making a comparison between Sers Ryan and Hanleigh using criteria based on follicular qualities was not…_valid_, seeing as Ser Hanleigh hadn't anything to compare in the first place.

"Anyway," Dagna informed her smugly. "I'm a taken woman. Ser Hanleigh's a _keeper._"

Alyce's frown deepened. She pushed the spoon away again, spilling stew over the covers. Dagna rolled her eyes and reached for the napkin to clean up. Alyce didn't much care. She wasn't hungry.

"Ser Hanleigh's Dalish?" she asked, trying to make sense of the dwarf's words. Nothing seemed to connect correctly. "Isn't he a bit tall for an elf?"

"Wha?" Dagna made a face at her. "Ancestors Alyce, you've got to get your head together. People are going to start thinking you've gone cuckoo. Relatively speaking. It's not like Ser Bran was particularly good at those Holy Smites. Ser Ryan tells me you're quite lucky. If it had been a more competent Templar, we'd be toasting marshmallows on you by now."

Giving up on the stew, Dagna stood up. She patted the top of Alyce's head in what was apparently a motherly and comforting way. To Alyce it felt like a cave-in of several tonnes of solid rock.

"Ow."

"Try and eat something," Dagna told her. With one last, pitying look, Dagna turned away and left the room. Alyce stared after her. She glared at the closed door for several minutes, the passing of time unnoticed. The resentment shifted eventually to the bowl of stew. _Stupid __stew__…_

Looking around, she attempted to take stock of her surroundings. The room did not look familiar and yet there were elements that were. The rug was a green that she remembered from…too long ago and the curtains rippled around an open window onto a view that kept nudging at her memory. Sliding from between the sheets, Alyce walked unsteadily towards it.

A garden. Some kind of high pitched chirping noise. Crickets were they? Cicadas? She was grateful to remember something at least; of running through long grass as tall as her head. Clouds of fireflies and the cool night breezes. The scent of rose water and mint and boiled cabbages.

_I know this place._

Alyce sunk onto the window seat. Cheek pressed up against the frame of the window pane, she closed her eyes, listening to the world around her, slowly becoming aware of a rhythmic wooden thump; distant but not for long. The sound paused. The door opened with an impatient harrumph and rustling of stiff fabric. The air in the room _compressed _and then relaxed; the window seat creaked, protesting slightly at the added weight. Cool hands touched her face, ran through her unkempt hair.

A sigh.

"You're damnably accident prone for someone your age," a slightly croaky voice scolded. "I've never known anyone to get into as many scrapes as you have and that's saying something considering I used to be the same. O' course, we were fighting the Orlesians at the time. Never get an arrow in your arse," the voice recommended sagely. "You never sit quite the same afterwards…"

Alyce opened her eyes, drinking in the iron grey hair, streaked with snow, the thin, disapproving mouth, curled slightly downwards at one end. The eyes were completely colourless now, the cheeks sunken. There were more angles, deeper lines. Skin that had been soft as rose petals had turned to thin parchment, too delicate and fragile to touch. The jaw was still the same; square, determined and stubborn and those colourless, sightless eyes still had the power to see more than the material and corporeal. The shoulders had become stooped; the ramrod-straight back slightly rounded now, but despite the hints that the passing of time had thrown down the gauntlet, in the battle between Aunt Mildred and age, her aunt remained the victor.

Alyce placed her own hand around the one resting on the carved dragon head of the walking stick.

"I'm home, aren't I?" she asked, hoping against everything that this wasn't some kind of cruel Fade dream that would eject her as soon as the entity across from her tried to speak. So the question was fearful and hesitant, almost a whisper.

At the other end of the window seat Aunt Mildred reached out with her spare hand and pinched her niece's cheek firmly.

"Well it ain't the bloody Pearl, that's for certain!" she snapped curtly.

-oo

_Well,__ that__'__s __annoying__…_She couldn't find her boots. Or socks, or anything else besides a pair of light coloured breeches. The cuffs were frayed and there was a hole in one knee but with no other clothing in the room, Alyce climbed into them, wondering whether her luggage and spare clothing might catch up with her some time. The nightshirt she retained, tying the toggles as high up her neck as they would go. The effect, she saw in the tall oblong mirror by the dressing table, made her look like a jester's bladder or one of those clever dwarven devices for children that was filled with marsh gas and tied to a string. _What__ were__ they __called?_

_A__ ballsup__…_Or something to that effect. Ball-shaped and floated upwards anyway.

Padding as quietly as her sleep-stiffened limbs would allow, Alyce made for the door, turning the handle slowly. Her nose entered the hallway first, followed by the rest of her, peering both ways for any signs of life. Her unshod feet allowed her to tiptoe silently along the floorboards, enjoying the feel of cool wood beneath the soles of her feet. Her cheek still stung where her aunt had slapped her and she clung to the sensation, grateful to be alive and…home.

And…_not _at the 'Pearl'. Whatever that was. Some kind of seafood restaurant perhaps? It sounded possibly Orlesian and to be avoided like the Red Fever. Unless someone else was paying and she had an extra pretty dress to wear…_And__ where __the __Fade __is__ my __head__ going__ today?_

Well, she'd have to ask Dagna about that one later.

At the moment she had no real control over where she was going, guided by a desire not to be indoors any more. She was tired of lying down and restless to do something; anything. She'd been sent to Highever to do work, not lie about like some kind of Orlesian mistress who ate too much fancy fish at puffy-pants Denerim restaurants. _I __really__ have__ to__ stop __doing __that__…__why __am __obsessed__ all__ of __a __sudden__ by __Orlais?_

Her wandering took her to the end of the hall, memory causing her hands to run along the carved dado rails. Her fingers eventually located a small round depression in a bunch of wooden grapes. Alyce pushed at the fruit. The tiniest click sounded and the discreet servants' door swung open. A quick look over her shoulder to check the coast was clear and she sidled through the narrow opening, making sure the door was closed securely behind her. The whole point of a secret doorway was that it remained secret. Especially to curious dwarves that liked to sneak around for no other reason than that they could.

The door gave way to a set of sturdy wooden stairs, well-lit by the combination of a series of cleverly placed windows high above and hinged mirrors that could be re-angled, depending on the time of day. Each stair was layered with decades of slippery dust; great chalky puffs rising with each step she took. By the time she had reached the bottom, her feet were filthy, but her blood was pumping more strongly by the end and her head felt more clear than it had in the last few days. The servants' staircase led her to the kitchen store room; the door thankfully unlocked. The kitchen itself was empty, though there were signs of recent usage; a large skillet and bowls placed on a drying cloth, the scent of lemon and grease lingering in the air.

She could hear noises outside in the kitchen gardens. Alyce paused, listening at the outer door before taking a deep breath and stepping outside. Bright sunlight greeted her; cheerful and warm, along with the laughing voices of children and running feet.

She almost didn't recognise Myfanwy. The girl had grown half a head and had put on a bit more weight with more healthy colour than the last time Alyce had seen her, recently ill from the Fever. Peering from behind the raggedy scarecrow in the melon patch, Alyce saw two more sets of dark eyes. A streak of light brown dashed across her field of view.

Greagoir saw the boulder-sized melon too late, tripping head over heels and landing hard. His somersault brought him to a dazed heap beneath the scarecrow, his face immediately screwing up in alarm and pain. Alyce knew the signs of an impending flash flood of tears. She started forward, only to be forestalled by a quicker, larger bulk.

She froze mid-lunge, as confused and surprised as Greagoir had been by the melon. The figure was shirtless; his skin tanned to a deep caramel; except where multiple red-purple scars criss-crossed the surface of his back and shoulders. _Would__ a__ demon __have __reproduced__ that,_ she wondered? Her hands clutched at the fabric of her dusty nightshirt, fearing for Greagoir, while at the same time trying to pin down her uncooperative thoughts to decipher them. Whatever it was, Alyce saw him crouch down in front of her little boy, their conversation inaudible. Alyce only saw Greagoir's stormy expression lighten, along with his determined little nod. Greagoir turned towards her, his smile wide and happy. Dashing towards her, he threw himself at her knees.

"Mama!" he cried, eyes alight. "I'm playing!" he announced. He pointed helpfully to Myf and Bonnie; the two having emerged from their hiding places, giggling behind him. "I have fiends!" Greagoir added her proudly. "I'm playing!"

"I think you meant 'friends'," Ser Ryan's voice gently corrected him.

Greagoir gave another, affirmative nod. "Yeah!" he exclaimed. "Bye-bye!" Having imparted his words of revelation, he ran back to the girls. Alyce watched him go, amazed at his speed and the…she realised with an ache in her heart that she had never seen Greagoir smile like that before, truly glad that she had brought him with her to Highever.

As for the demon…He was running a grubby hand through his hair, looking _embarrassed_ and self-conscious. _Definitely__ a__ desire__ demon__…_

"My mother and your aunt are going to have kittens when they see these garden beds," he told her. "Your aunt is understandably proud of her melons and gourds…"

He grimaced suddenly, ducking his head. "That…sounded worse out loud…" He looked up then, to find her gaze fixed solidly on his scars; visible from where she stood, like claws gripping the tops of his shoulders.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon…" he said, trying to use conversation to distract her. "I'm not exactly fit to be seen…"

When she continued to say nothing still, he added politely. "How are you feeling?"

She continued to stare unrelentlessly; arms folded tightly across her chest, hands gripping her elbows. He noticed she was pinching herself.

"You're not in the Fade," he told her gently. "We are not visions conjured by mischievous, spiteful demons."

Her eyes finally flew to his.

"You aren't dead?" she whispered, her voice unsteady.

"No," Ryan confirmed, conscious of the dirt under his nails and his dishevelled appearance in general from having worked in the garden all morning. To his great mortification, she reached over, plucking a leaf from his hair. Holding it between forefinger and thumb, she appeared to give it a dazed scrutiny as though she had never seen anything like it before.

"I am not dead," Ryan added, in case his first statement had not been clear enough.

"You're not a demon?" she asked.

"Well, I…" He was rewarded by being granted the pleasure of her attention again, her lovely grey eyes hopeful and yet worried at the same time.

_You__'__re__ not __a __demon__…_Ryan knew he should have given her some kind of assurance; a positive statement or some kind of proof to allay her fears. It might have been because he was so relieved to see her leave her room after all that time worrying about her and not being able to watch over her because it was too confusing. Perhaps he had been spending too much time in the company of outspoken elderly women lately. Or perhaps it was because in the presence of Alyce Amell, he felt more like himself than with anyone or anywhere else.

His eyes crinkled impishly and a grin crooked one corner of his mouth.

"For you," he said, laughter creeping into his voice. "I could be."

-oo-


	64. Friendship

-oo-

**Chapter 64 – Friendship**

_Dead weight or resistance…_? Alyce paused, looking first down one end of the street and then the other. _Why is he resisting? _She wasn't too sure whether to turn left or right. _No, he's just heavy. _She raised her eyes above the city line. The jagged roof of the Chantry of Our Lady the Redeemer was quite clearly visible from where she stood. _He's not helping much. _How to get there? Every time she thought she was getting close, she'd needed to stop to check her bearings and the darned Chantry looked even further away than when she had first started out, at the city's gates.

_Of course, I could just ask him._

Alyce glanced over her shoulder. His eyebrows rose expectantly.

She chewed on her bottom lip, fingers flexing in the fabric of his sleeve. _This is embarrassing. _It shouldn't be like this. Her inability to plot a simple route across a single page of parchment was well known by most of the population of Thedas, never mind _Ferelden._ He should have expected it. _She _should have expected it. Her shoulders slumped. She could have left him behind, brought the dwarf or asked the Warden. Nathaniel Howe knew the city of Amaranthine back to front, inside out and upside down and probably by every single cockroach on a first name basis, _but…_

"Is there a point to this?" he asked.

"Um."

He looked down at her hand, tangled white-knuckled on his arm. "While I have no _personal _objection to your attachment to me," he began, the _cheeky _corner of his mouth curving upwards, "we do appear to be attracting some unwanted attention."

Alyce glared, compressing her lips together hastily because the words of a Repulsion Shield were very close to being made very public and public displays of magic were frowned upon in a city that was presided over by the second largest gathering of Chantry personnel in the country.

_Wait. He cares about that sort of thing: appearances?_

Ser Ryan's eyebrows continued their upward trend. The shape of her mouth however, turned in the opposite direction. When he placed his hand over hers, beginning to lever her fingers off his arm, she tensed like a tent rope. Ser Ryan gave her hand a reassuring pat. "I promise I won't lead you astray," he told her. "Unless you wish me to, though I can't imagine that would be very gentlemanly of me," he added jokingly. With no response appearing to be forthcoming, Ser Ryan sighed.

"Alyce, will you not at least tell me why you wished me to accompany you to Amaranthine today?"

She shook her head at him, looking nervous.

"Allow me to attempt a different line of questioning in that case," he continued as patiently as his curiosity would allow. "Why me?" Sheepish look. "Very well. Let me ask you this: do you have a specific place in Amaranthine that you wish to see? Or are you more inclined towards sightseeing?" Speculative frown. "If I point to certain places of interest, will you at least tell me whether I am hot or cold?" _Blush_. "Again. Let me rephrase that," he said. "If you do not indicate in either words or gesture your reason for being here, I will provide the good people of Amaranthine the entertainment they appear to be expecting by ravishing you in public."

Eyes wide as saucers, Alyce choked. "You wouldn't!" Her gaze darted to the crowd of onlookers. Ser Ryan's loud declaration had caused more than a mere handful of passers-by to pause, in the hope of shortly being witness to an interesting spectacle. Alyce noticed there appeared to be a larger number of females stopping than should have been acceptable. Clearly if _she _or a plainer looking male had made the statement, rotten fruit might be involved; or dead rats, flaming pitchforks or possibly, a combination of all three.

_Wait…_

"You're a bit confident of yourself!" she exclaimed. "What makes you think anyone would want to be ravished by don't answer that question and if you don't stop laughing I'm going to thump you I mean it!"

"I was laughing _with_ you, _cariad._"

"Yeah," Alyce began to walk again. "Sure. I believe you. Or not. Because this is _clearly _my laughing face." Shooting warning glares into the crowd, she violently elbowed her way through, with still no idea whether she was going the right way. They should be travelling upwards, but no road appeared to lead in that direction. _Wait. Again. _"What did you just call me?" she asked. "Carrion?" _How incredibly rude!_

His cheeks dimpled when he laughed. _The bastard…_

"Not 'carrion'," he corrected her. "_Cariad._"

"I knew that!" she stated with no confidence whatsoever. A long moment's silence then ensued, followed by: "You're supposed to tell me it doesn't mean 'large bird who eats rotting corpses', right?"

"Perhaps to another large bird who eats rotting corpses, the term might well apply," he responded, looking far too pleased with himself. "And where are we headed?"

"Somewhere convenient where I might dump _your _rotting corpse!" she snapped back grumpily. She stopped again, letting his laughter wash over her and enjoying the sound immensely, but wanting to kick his shins nevertheless. She pointed upwards. "There!" she told him. "I'm trying to get _there_!"

Ser Ryan's amusement turned slightly surprised. "In that case," he told her gravely. "Allow me to say that my fears for your soul have been allayed, if you seek succour from Our Lady the Redeemer."

"I'll give _you _bloody succour!" Alyce growled at him. "Can you be serious for a moment?" she demanded. "I need to be there! So just take me there, you, you, you…_you_!"

He looked pointedly down at her hand on his sleeve. "And will you release this death grip you've had on my arm since Highever?" he asked quietly.

"No."

"No?" he repeated enquiringly.

Alyce's teeth ground together before she spoke. "Do you still have circulation in your arm?" she asked, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He inclined his head in assent. "Am I causing you any pain?" Ser Ryan gave a small shake of his head. "Then the answer is 'no'. I don't intend to…" Ser Ryan didn't think it was possible, considering Alyce might have lost circulation in her own hand by holding onto his for so long, but her fingers tightened on his sleeve even more.

"I don't intend to let you go," she murmured, voice barely audible and eyes downcast. Her head whipped up abruptly and she _stared. _"And not in a creepily obsessive way either!" she denied hotly, looking thoroughly scandalised by her own statement. "That is…"

Ser Ryan looked into her reddened face, seeing the fear and anxiety lurking unvoiced behind her eyes. He understood; banishing his humorous mood.

"The Chantry is this way," he told her, turning her around and walking back the way the two of them had just come. He was also beginning to gain some idea why she needed to go where she wanted to go and why he needed to be with her at the time.

-oo-

He was wrong…and he was disappointed.

As the two of them cleared the top stair at the wide, landscaped approach to the Chantry building, a strong gust of wind knocked them backwards. A shawl was snatched from the shoulders of an elderly woman standing nearby, tangling their legs. Ser Ryan bent down to pick up the garment, finding his movement still hindered by Alyce's persistent hold on his arm. Straightening, he gave the shawl a deft flick to rid it of dirt and leaves, finding Alyce's focus on a gathering of armed soldiers standing by the pilgrim's font.

_Templars…_

Ser Ryan's brows drew downwards at the sight of one of the more familiar of the armoured men. Stepping in front of Alyce, he wished he had not chosen to accompany his mage clad only in mail and tunic; automatically reviewing the catalogue of weak areas on a Templar's uniform, where his short sword and dagger could do the most damage.

Just in case.

"Is this why we are here?" he asked her quietly, unable to keep a note of anger out of his voice. The last person he wished to see or speak to was Ser Bran. By the quick flash of guilt, deliberately and hastily tamped, Ryan had his answer without her uttering a single word. "Feeling masochistic are you?" he added, almost a growl.

Alyce stared at her feet, collecting both her thoughts and her courage. Finger by finger, she deliberately released her hold on his sleeve and stepped towards the group of Templars. Eyes flashing, Ser Ryan snatched at her arm, trying to prevent her from doing so. He didn't give a damn what it looked like. No _friend_ of his would have treated a mage – or any human for that matter – the way Ser Bran had treated Alyce Amell. Regardless of _duty,_ he had expected Bran to have better control; better judgement. The man had known Amell as long as he. Personal feelings aside, Bran should have known as much than to jump to conclusions as he had.

"Neither of us have any reason to speak to that individual," Ser Ryan growled. The look she cast him was disappointed.

"You don't speak for me, Ser Ryan," she said quietly, deliberate in her use of the more formal address of his name.

"He almost killed you!" he hissed at her.

The smallest of smiles crooked the corners of her mouth. "Because of your actions a long time ago in Highever," she reminded him gently. "The first time we were there together…So did you."

Ser Ryan's head jerked back as though she had struck him. He wondered whether she held that particular incident against him still; when he had put her in harm's way with Howe's soldiers. _No. Amell isn't like that…_

"Alyce…" he began helplessly.

She shook her head at him. "If you will not speak to him, then I will," she told him gently but firmly. "The two of you have been friends for far too long and have been through too much together to simply…break."

"Given the fullness of time," Ser Ryan folded his arms obstinately across his chest and _glaring _at Ser Bran, "I'm sure I would have ceased resenting his ill-judged and unwarranted attack on you."

Alyce shrugged. "I'm sure in the fullness of time, I'll be sure to stop reminding you that your Holy Smites hurt more," she retorted tartly, some of her fire returning. "What I did…" she sighed. "I was…I know I shouldn't have run," she told him. "I know that. It was just at the time I was…" _grieving…There, I've admitted it. I was grieving…whatever that is. I missed him. I hated that I could not save him, even though I had tried my very hardest to do so. Even though I had ripped a hole in the veil to do it…it had not seemed to have been enough. Magic takes away life so easily, but giving it back? Nigh impossible, unless it's stolen from someone else and that's the same as taking it away._

"When you decided to take responsibility for Greagoir," Alyce attempted an approach from a different direction. "Did it never occur to you what the consequences would be? You thought you could shoulder the blame by yourself," she said slowly. "Did you ever think for one moment that your blame would not be contagious? Do you hold yourself so cheaply that you thought those who knew you would not care about _your _fate?"

"Ser Bran is…" he began impatiently, to be cut off mid-sentence.

"Ser Bran blamed _me, _not you!" she informed him sharply.

"Ser Bran is a fool."

"So are you!" she accused him, poking him sharply in his chest. "You had no right to take responsibility! Greagoir was given to _me _for safekeeping, not _you_! It was up to me to make excuses for him, not you."

Short of rolling his eyes, Ser Ryan asked, "What are you trying to say?"

"Trying to tell you to stop being so bloody noble!" she shouted, causing heads to turn. The group of Templars had begun to disperse, but they paused, turning their attention towards Alyce and Ser Ryan instead. Ser Bran himself, quite aware of their arrival for some time now had been watching the two of them surreptitiously, either waiting for a summons…or an opportunity to leave.

Ser Ryan placed a warning hand on her arm.

"I didn't…" he began haltingly, flicking his gaze once more towards Ser Bran. "I am not noble…nor quite as self-sacrificing as you think…" he told her quietly.

Her eyes closed, jaw tensing in that unmistakeable way of hers that told him she was grinding her teeth together, considering his words. He hadn't wanted to say it. It wasn't as if she had goaded him into admitting another, less than altruistic motive for claiming paternity of Greagoir. This was _Amell…_He knew that if anyone could have figured out the reasons behind his actions that day, it would be _her. _But he had not wanted to say it out loud. He wanted to remain…no, he wanted to _become _perfect in her eyes. There were so many reasons he could name that would prove how unworthy he was; unworthy of _her._ For all that she might believe that her magic might keep them from being with each other, there were so many other ways that his own life; his circumstances would do the same.

When her hand went to the pendant around her neck, his ability to breathe appeared to fail him. He hated doing this to her. _So why am I doing it…?_

Her eyes re-opened and a humourless smile twisted her lips. "You were willing to endure harsh punishment," she began, "risked tarnishing your good reputation and the loss of a career built on _years _of hard work merely to find a convenient escape from the Order and your vows Ser Ryan?" she asked. Again, he noted the use of the formal title of his name. "I – and Greagoir – were merely a convenient screen for your selfishness?" she asked him. "Is that what you want us to think?"

Ser Ryan's hand fell to his side, no longer touching her. _Maker, I don't deserve this woman,_ he thought. _I never will. _

"Yes," he said simply.

She raised her eyes to his, clear as spring rain. He felt himself sinking again. And then a sharp, wholly unexpected pain exploded from the centre of his face, bringing instant tears to his eyes. His hand went immediately to his nose, eyes crossing slightly as he stared at her in surprise. Without any warning whatsoever, she had flicked the end of his nose and _Andraste's smouldering arse, _did it hurt.

She leant in close. "Bollocks…!" she hissed at him. "You might have thought that everything you did was for yourself, but in the end, Ser Ryan I'm-Everyman's-Hero, you only ended up hurting yourself."

"Alyce…"

"If you'd gotten on the first ship to Orlais or Rivain, to live the high life as some fancy-man escort for noble ladies, I'd say 'yeah…that'd be about right'. But you didn't." She poked him in the chest again. No chain mail - no matter how close the links - would have withstood such an assault. Ser Ryan winced in discomfort. "No…instead you go home to continue playing dutiful son, not only working your iced buns off for the Teyrn, and your own family, but for my aunt as well, practically rebuilding Amell Cottage…or did you think I wouldn't have noticed the place wasn't quite as falling apart as when I saw it last? I'm not _that _clueless.

"And if you think you're going to keep taking responsibility, well…!" She waggled a finger at him. He winced again, this time in anticipation of being poked, but his ribs and internal organs remained safe…for now.

"Alyce," he began wearily. "I'm not…"

"Perfect. Yeah. I know. If you were I wouldn't like you so much." She made a face at him. "Probably wouldn't be able to stand you in fact. Perfect people are so insufferable…" Her head shook in general disbelief. "How can people so perfect stand themselves? Must be a pain in the proverbial." She exhaled a lungful of exasperated air. "Look," she told him, clearly bored with the subject. "Just go and talk to him."

"No."

"I'll buy you a toffee apple…" she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

"Fine," he told her, trying very, very hard not to laugh and so very relieved at the same time by her abrupt change in subject. "I will speak to the scoundrel. And it's not because of the toffee apple!"

-oo-

The Templars, confident that they would not be needed to intervene in a public airing of a domestic dispute, had returned to the Chantry building. Ser Bran remained in the square, anticipating being run through or worse. With a sharp jerk of his head, Ser Ryan indicated the two of them adjourn to a more sparsely occupied area of garden. As they walked, Ser Ryan caught Bran looking back at Amell and he frowned. _I know that look…_It was the same one he had seen on the face of Aidan Cousland, shortly before the young man admitted his infatuation with Alyce. _Great. Wonderful._

_Why didn't I think of that before?_

Their final destination was the balcony, overlooking the city of Amaranthine. The elevation of the Chantry and its grounds gave a bustling view of the city's denizens below. Ser Ryan had been here a few times with Fergus Cousland, since the last darkspawn attack. If he had not done so and seen the damage wrought, he would have thought the city had never had any contact whatsoever with those tainted creatures. In such a short space of time, the rubble had been cleared, corpses burned and activity in the ports resuming within weeks. Denerim still had scaffolding visible in the more outlying areas of the capital. In Amaranthine however, there were no signs rebuilding and repair continued to this day.

Leaning against the balustrade, Ser Ryan watched a team of draught horses pull a heavily laden wain down the main street. Ser Bran stood next to him, watching something else; Ser Ryan cared little.

"You're still here," Ryan said eventually.

A tiny clink of metal indicated Ser Bran nodding his head.

"Surely the Tower expected you to have returned by now," Ser Ryan continued, making it quite clear by the tone of his voice that he wished Ser Bran elsewhere.

"Did she send you to speak to me?" Ser Bran asked. Ryan turned his back onto the city below. Folding his own arms across his chest, he did not realise he and Ser Bran made matching bookends of warriors; mirroring each other's stance of crossed arms, rigid shoulders and stubbornly set jaws.

"Seeing as I had no desire to speak to you myself, yes," Ryan told him.

Ser Bran nodded. "Mm."

Ser Ryan glared at the toes of his boots. "You can't have her by the way," he growled.

Bran looked over at the other man in surprise. "Eh? What? Who…?"

-oo-

_Ooh, I'm such a coward…_Alyce chewed on her bottom lip anxiously. It wasn't as if she could flee. Her bad sense of direction would have her lost within minutes and the rest of her life would be spent wandering Amaranthine, trying to find the city gates, turning into a wizened, batty old lady, accosting random passers-by for directions. Uncomfortable at watching Ser Bran and Ryan facing off each other, she turned to the nearest pillar, watching their shadows instead.

She supposed she could have left things the way they were, but her conscience wouldn't allow her. Ryan and Bran had been friends long before she'd even realised Templars could be told apart.

"_Wha…?"_

Alyce glanced over her shoulder. _Ah…_The moment at which Ser Ryan's realisation hit had been marked quite clearly by that very uncharacteristic utterance. Ser Ryan's eyes were round as sovereigns and the colour of his skin had taken on an even deeper shade, slightly more towards the scarlet range…Silent as a statue and almost just as immobile, his gaze toppled jerkily until it was resting on her. She returned a nervous grimace; causing his eyebrows to sink deeply on his forehead. _You knew…_!

Alyce remained where she was, self-consciously fidgeting with the ties on her belt. She watched Ser Bran take Ser Ryan's hand and shake it, her grimace turning into a something more dire when the Templar headed towards her.

Ser Bran attempted to tower over her; difficult seeing as the two of them were the same height. Fixing his gaze on the pillar, he cleared his throat and addressed it.

"Well."

Alyce gaze slid sideways. "Well," she acknowledged him with a small nod.

"I'm…sorry," he said, head bowing slightly. "About the…almost killing you…thing."

She shrugged. "No harm done. Only doing your job and all that," she told him.

He sighed. "Very big of you to say that, Mage," Ser Bran said. "Though I expected a fiery ball of death in your response actually."

Alyce snorted. She thumbed back towards the building behind them. "In front of this place?" she asked.

"Yeah. Right. Right. Stupid of me. Sorry."

"Anyway…" Alyce rolled her eyes.

"Anyway…" Ser Bran finally met her gaze. He exhaled a long breath. "Good luck with the post and all of that…?"

"Yeah. Thanks. You too," she added. "With the…standing around and all of that."

He nodded. Again. Raising his hand tentatively, he placed it onto her shoulder. "Take care of him, will you?"

"Sure."

"And…"

Alyce sighed too. Grabbing a hold of the end of his goatee, she leant forward and planted a kiss onto his stubbled cheek. "Take care of yourself, you horse's arse."

Blinking in surprise, Ser Bran appeared to be startled to find himself the recipient of any show of affection. Especially from the person in front of him. It was unexpectedly…_kind _of her.

He still refused to call her pretty.

Giving her shoulder a last, acknowledging squeeze, Ser Bran strode towards the stairs. In a few short paces, he was lost from view.

-oo-


	65. Promise

A/N: So apologies for both the delay in the chapters and the double-post. I had hoped to have a chapter up before the 25th, but didn't quite manage to finish it in time. So…as a thank you to all of you lovely people who have been following this story up to this point, two chapters.

Wishing all of you a safe, happy and prosperous New Year. Take care everyone and hope to hear from you in 2012.

Cheers,

Champion The Wonder Snail

-oo-

**Chapter 65 – Promise**

He hadn't spoken a single word to her since they had left Amaranthine. Neither saw Ser Bran when they left, but Alyce supposed he would have taken the south gate immediately whereas the two of them spent some time afterwards tracking down Owain's Tranquil colleague before collecting the horse and then departing through the north gates of the city. She wondered whether the two men would talk to each other now. On the other hand, she also wondered whether Ser Ryan would speak at all. Ever. Again.

Her business in Amaranthine adding an hour or two to their journey away from Highever; by the time the two of them returned, it was early evening. Ser Ryan delivered her to Amell Cottage then surprised her by leading the horse into the narrow barn between the kitchen garden and the servant's apartments. She had expected him to return to Highever Castle straight away.

She debated helping him, limping unsteadily to the barn doors. Should she talk first? Or should she wait for him to be 'ready' to speak to her? Perhaps she should open dialogue by making some kind of inane comment? Talk about how her bottom had never been this comatose before…? _No, he probably isn't interested in my bottom…_The weather? _Nice day we had…sorry I forgot your toffee apple._ Rubbing surreptitiously at her behind, Alyce stepped further into the barn, trying to come up with something to say to break the silence between them. She'd been at the point of opening her mouth and taking a breath, when footsteps could be heard, following the sound of the barn door rattling.

"Wonderful, the two of you are back. I thought I heard someone back here."

Morwenna hung cheerfully onto the swinging barn door. The speculative look she gave first Alyce then her brother earned her a frown from the latter. "We wondered whether you might stay overnight in Amaranthine, if you ended up taking longer than planned."

Alyce could hear Morwenna's eyebrows wiggle suggestively, even if she hadn't voiced the words hinting that the two of them might have chosen to have delayed on _purpose._

"Not overnight, Morwenna," Ser Ryan _finally _spoke. Alyce released the lungful of air that she did not realise she had been withholding until now. Even if he sounded annoyed, at least he was speaking to _someone_.

"It would hardly have been appropriate."

Morwenna made a face at him. "Gentleman…" She made it sound like it was a _bad _thing.

"Thank you, sister," Ser Ryan said, throwing a blanket over the horse. "Is there a reason for your timely greeting," he asked. "Or are you merely here for suggestion and innuendo?"

"Maker, Ryan…time to remove that broom handle from up your…"

"And how does my aunt fare today, Morwenna?" Alyce stepped hastily between the two siblings.

The other woman rolled her eyes at her brother but reserved a friendlier smile for Alyce. "Waiting for the two of you to come back actually," she told them both. "Not that she's been anxious," she reassured Alyce quickly. "If you hurry, dinner will still be warm enough to eat."

"Tha…"

"Thank you sister. We will need time to tidy ourselves, so I suggest you don't wait."

Morwenna blew a raspberry at him. She stuck her tongue out for good measure. "Stick in the mud." She turned her attention to Alyce. "Anyway," she told the younger woman. "Welcome back. I'll see you later? Please say you'll back me up when the Backgammon board comes out. Mother plays Qunari style…instant _death_."

Alyce grinned at her. "At least she doesn't play strip Backgammon like my Ahh…you know the road from here to Amaranthine has improved so much, we're here a lot earlier than we thought we would be. I didn't see a single pot hole between here and the…you had better go back inside; wouldn't want your dinner to go cold."

Morwenna stared keenly at Alyce. Alyce stared vaguely at the barn door.

"Of course," Morwenna sighed, deciding to give up for now. Shaking her head at the both of them, she turned to go. "Don't take too long making yourselves pretty!" she tossed over her shoulder and then she was gone. In her wake Alyce released another long, relieved breath.

"You knew."

Alyce yelped and jumped. Hands clutched to her chest, she leant against the barn door waiting for her heart to return to a more normal rhythm. The sneaking sneaker had snuck up on her without her noticing. Sneakily.

"You knew," he repeated, propping himself opposite.

"Ah…ha, ha, ha…Yes. I. did," she admitted with a twist of her mouth. "Look I'm sorry you're angry, but…"

He shook his head. "I'm more angry at myself for not realising sooner," he said quietly. He cast a brief glance towards the house. "Was there not a reason to pass on even a small hint…?"

_Well…perhaps, but…_"Dagna had a hypothesis," Alyce told him simply. "A very vague one at that. Only Ser Bran knew the truth, really. Regardless whether he was going to confess his feelings to you, the two of you couldn't spend the rest of your lives avoiding each other. Ferelden is a very small country you know."

"Not small enough for some…" Ser Ryan pointed out.

"Small enough," Alyce persisted. "Anyway…the two of you have worked things out, right?"

Ser Ryan did not answer straight away. _Ser Bran...in love with me...?_ _And not with Alyce after all..._Pushing himself off the barn door frame, he began to walk towards the kitchen gardens.

"Of a sort," he offered over his shoulder. Scurrying after him, Alyce heard him add, "He doesn't think you're worthy enough for me."

_What…? _"Arrogant pinprick…" Alyce muttered darkly under her breath. "That's the last time I do that horse's arse a favour…"

He paused by the scarecrow. "He got that part wrong…"

"Bloody Templars…" Alyce was still muttering when she caught up with him. "What?"

Ser Ryan reached towards her. He'd removed a glove from his hand, running his bare fingers through the loose strands of hair that escaped her queue, curling them around an ear; his hand lingering at the base of her neck. Despite the tender gesture, his forehead was still creased in a frown. Clearly he did not approve of her hairstyle or…he was harbouring darker thoughts.

"Alyce…" he began. "I am not a…young man."

She snorted in a most unladylike way. "Mm-hm. Practically a fossil," she said, cocking her head to the side. "I think we've already gone over this. It's a wonder you haven't turned up your toes already," she told him. "Popped your clogs," she added. "Kicked the bucket. Breathed your last. Gone over to the Wynne side…"

"That's not what I mean and you know it," he said, slightly scolding. "I am not a wealthy man. By the time I establish myself and start to make ends meet, I'll be even older. I'm not…" The frown deepened. "I am not for you. Much as I want to be. One does not live on fresh air and kisses alone."

"An economical idea on the surface of it," Alyce commented. "But not a very practical one, no." _Where does he come up with these zany ideas? Reading Dagna's 'novels'?_ "But I'd like to point out that…" She expelled a sound half way between a self-deprecating snort and mocking laughter. "I'm a _mage…_" She leant in conspiratorially. "Just in case you didn't know…" she told him in a whisper. Raising her voice to more normal levels, she continued. "And as a mage, I am not without the means to support myself…or _you_, for that matter."

Folding her arms across her chest, Alyce swayed back slightly, looking enormously pleased with herself for coming up with this particular reasoning. By the look on Ser Ryan's face however, he was attempting to digest this piece of logic and finding it was giving him stomach ache.

"I…don't think I want to be supported by you," he said slowly, turning each word around carefully as he spoke them, just in case there was something nasty hiding underneath.

Alyce merely grinned at him. _Yeah. I am going to make you eat those words for dinner one day…_"We'll see," she said out loud, trying not to sound too smug. "So…"

"Alyce…"

"Marry me?" she asked with a shrug.

"What?" Ser Ryan stared unblinking, like a deer caught in the light of a hunter's lamp.

Alyce merely looked thoughtful. "I think I'm supposed to…go down on one knee or something, right? I've seen an illustration somewhere. Do you think I should check with Dagna? Oh…" She touched his arm. "I've already asked your parents – for your hand, that is – and they said 'alright'. Morwenna said it was about bloody time because you weren't likely to be asked by anyone else…Huh…me and half the female mage population in Ferelden…and well…" She waggled a hand in the air. "About a third of the male population too…Ooh, is that allowed? Because if so, Ser Bran could have asked you too and aww, the two of you would have made such an adorable couple. I could have been best man – best mage – except I would have tried to run off with you in the end so maybe not such a good id…"

"Alyce. Alyce…!" Grabbing hold of both her shoulders, he gave her a quick, gentle shake. "You're not making sense!"

"Yeah. Yeah. I know. I'm a bit nervous." She added an unsteady giggle in illustration. "I've never asked anyone to marry me before and…what? What's with the crypt-keeper face?"

"I…I'm not too sure," Ser Ryan said, vaguely aware that he still had a voice. "I'm not exactly too sure what just happened to be honest."

"I asked you to marry me. Remember? It wasn't that long ago. It was about, oh…five minutes ago, give or take? And…"

"And?"

"You're supposed to say 'yes'. Please say yes…?" Alyce bounced slightly on the balls of her feet. He was still staring at her as though she had just asked him to dress up as the Archdemon and go wandering into the midst of a Weisshaupt Fortress full of Grey Wardens. "Because if you don't," she added anxiously. "I'm going to be forced to mage-stalk you and that ain't pretty, let me tell you. Not to mention awkward. Have I said awkward? Because it would be. Fair warning. Really. Awkward. I'm not making any sense now. See what you've made me do?" she accused him. "I'm spouting completely nonsense sentences and it's all your fault. Stupid. Not you, clearly because I don't think you should call your intended 'stupid'…unless they _were, _but I wouldn't ask a complete idiot to marry me. Even _I _have standards. Really and you're not too bad in the brain basket because you're…how are you at cross-words? Because I'm really rubbish at them…"

Ser Ryan gave his head a shake as her aimless chatter continued relentlessly without any indication it was ever going to cease in this Age or the next. As she was really starting to make his head hurt, he did only logical thing to make her shut up, short of Holy Smiting her.

He kissed her.

So and he'd only meant it as a brief distraction. A single, careless peck on the mouth was all he'd intended except that a half second into the kiss, his brain went wandering and common sense decided to take a nap. It had a lot to do with the fact that Alyce was kissing him back and…she'd been…practising? He wondered vaguely who she'd been practising on and how and _where _and _holy Maker when did she learn how to do that with her tongue and…? Wait…no, that's me…_Forgetting completely where he ended and Alyce began and savouring the taste of her like the finest Greenfell ale and he was having trouble getting himself to stop even though he really, really needed to breathe right now.

His salvation came in the form of a strident demand, scything across the air between the house and where the two of them stood, locked in time and space and each other.

"_What are they doing out there? 'Bout bloody time they got inside…!"_

_Mutter, mutter, mutter…_

"_Well, as long as they're not fornicating amongst my bitter gourds! Make 'em turn sour, they will! My prize melons'll never ripen at this rate!"_

It was Alyce who brought them both back to earth, landing them gently with the merest bump and jolt by breaking the connection. He was vaguely aware of her fingers tracing lazy lines across his jaw. She was…glowing or else there was something seriously wrong with his eyesight because he was having trouble seeing anything else and Alyce Amell appeared to be the brightest object in his universe.

"Is that a yes?" she asked, uncertain and hopeful.

_No…_a small voice said at the back of his head. "What made you change your mind?" the less sane part of him asked instead.

A smile curved her dampened lips. "Dagna's very thorough research," she said, her soft voice rustling the leaves of his mind. "About how mages have married over history. Some of them to actual people," she added, a demonish twinkle in her eye. "And…" Her arms tightened around him; almost imperceptibly, but still there. "That and almost losing you." Her jaw set stubbornly, she glared up at him fiercely. "I never want to feel that way again."

_Fine._

As the silence stretched out between them, the tense hold she'd had on him began to loosen. The ferocity cooled and she began to curl up inside herself, little by little.

He realised rather belatedly that his hand was on her breast. Had she noticed? Well, she hadn't made a smart comment about it. Yet. Best not mention it and draw attention to the fact.

"Mage-stalking?" he asked. "Really."

"Fireballs every second Monday," she told him promptly. "Lightning storms every other Tuesday. Stinging swarms at least once a month when I can fit it in during your chapel attendances. And the odd Crushing Prison, just to keep my practice up."

Ser Ryan looked keenly into her face. Andraste's spit roast, she looked serious.

"Don't I rate a freezing spell or the odd misdirection hex?" he asked.

"I'll work my way up to that in time," she said, wobbling her head from side to side.

"Well, I'd hate to be disappointed."

"I'd hate to disappoint you," she said and he knew then that she meant _that_, too. "Ryan…" she began, sounding worried.

"In that case," he interrupted her. _I must be completely out of my mind or else incredibly, unbelievably, stupidly _sane_…_"Yes."

Her smile eclipsed any misgivings he might think of against this particular response, though he was really quite sure _no _mage should sparkle like that. He'd leant in to claim another kiss when his intestines betrayed him with a loud, insistent and very hungry rumble. Alyce chuckled, turning her head towards the house.

"I think we should feed you too," she suggested.

"Ah…well."

"But before we do," she also suggested, moving in intriguingly closer. "I think you should remove your hand from my breast. Might be less embarrassment all round don't think? Unless you _like _being grilled…Aunt Mildred so _loves _her multi-choice quizzes."

-oo-

"And so we have finally come to this…"

The Knight Commander's voice boomed from end of the room to the other, the _is…is…is…_echoing up towards the rafters long after the two combatants took their places facing each other. The First Enchanter stood tall, angular shoulders rigid beneath the charmed fabric of his First Enchanter robes. _Tevinter-enchantments…_Torrin mused with a curl of his lips, flexing his own shoulders. _Pretentious bastard…_

The First Enchanter's eyes narrowed at the Senior Enchanter; challenge and victory in his flaring nostrils.

Torrin was unperturbed. _Let Irving think he has won. _

Let his triumph turn to ashes…

The Knight Commander and his senior-most Templars stood in a half circle; a formation of human pincers embracing the two most talented and accomplished mages in the Circle.

"…time immemorial, the Mages of the Circle have chosen…" Greagoir's voice continued to sandpaper their ears with his gravel-rough tones. "Mages…begin!"

Greagoir drew his sword with the barest flourish. A purple sash of the Ferelden Order of Templars had been tied to the hilt and as the Knight Commander hurled his sword against the side of a prepared barrel, a collective breath was heard to be taken. The sword stuck fast, with a woody twang, but it was not the Knight Commander's sword that all eyes were fixed upon. It was the sash…falling almost in slow motion downwards…landing to the left.

The First Enchanter gave a crow of delight and stepped towards his little round trestle of glazed mugs. From two pitchers he poured a generous measure of liquid into the mugs; one the colour of golden, ripened wheat, the other an almost blood-red.

"Ser Anwyn, Ser Wosely, please step forward!" the Knight Commander's commanding voice rang out once more.

Two Templars left the ranks, stepping towards the First Enchanter's table. Each claimed a mug of the golden liquid…And then the second…

"Hm…interesting." Ser Anwyn was the first to speak. "A very traditional ale this, light in body, refreshing with just the right balance of hops and grain."

"I agree, Ser Anwyn, "Ser Wosely nodded. "And the red is…I sense also of a traditional, yet modern blend; a meeting of the old and new to make this a rather astounding beverage." The Templar turned and raised his empty mug to the First Enchanter. "I applaud your efforts, First Enchanter. Well done!"

"Thank you Ser Wosely," the First Enchanter intoned humbly, though Senior Torrin could perceive the poked tongue in the elderly mage's statement…directed fully at _him._

"And our second combatant…" The Knight Commander announced, waving an imperious hand towards Senior Enchanter Torrin.

Torrin stepped forward. His offering came in the form of only one pitcher, which he poured into three mugs. Whether this included the Knight Commander or the First Enchanter, it was not clear. Either way, Torrin was careful to cast the mildest of ice spells into the ale. Frost formed up the sides of the mugs. "Best served slightly below room temperature, I've found…" Torrin explained as the Templars received their mugs of ale with thanks.

A moment passed by and then another. Tension in the room began to increase by millilitres, causing the Knight Commander to clear his throat expectantly.

Ser Anwyn sighed, placing his empty mug carefully and reverently onto the table. He and Ser Wosely exchanged a look of accordance, the bearded Ser Wosely wiping a tear surreptitiously from one eye. Without a backwards look, Ser Anwyn extended his hand towards the Senior Enchanter.

"Marvellous work, Senior Torrin. Marvellous work. Your masterful use of Deep Roads components make this brew both surprising and addictive."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Ser Wosely chimed in, wiping another tear from his eye. "I have been moved. Moved by your mastery, sir."

"Your verdict, gentleman," the Knight Commander prompted.

"I would have thought it obvious, Knight Commander," Ser Anwyn raised his eyebrows at Greagoir. "The Senior Enchanter of course!"

The First Enchanter was heard to growl in disappointment, but just barely, seeing as Senior Enchanter Torrin's whoops of glee drowned out everything else. The Templars applauded and then lined up for a taste of the winning brew.

"There will always be next year…" The First Enchanter sidled up to Torrin sourly. The Senior Enchanter glanced at Irving.

"Hah!" Torrin told him. "Your days as Ale Champion are over, First Enchanter."

The First Enchanter rolled his eyes. Reaching forward, he rapped a young Templar smartly on his backplate. "Well," he demanded. "I hope there's enough left for me."

A mug was duly passed over, the two mages retiring to the further corner of the room, away from the celebrating Templars. "You'll be pleased I hope, by information from you-know-who that things appear to be…settled in the north of this country," Irving told his Senior Enchanter, gaze fixed warily on the Templars that could possibly be within earshot.

"Settled…" Torrin repeated with a slight frown. "And yet," he added, "no word as yet from Weisshaupt?"

The First Enchanter shook his head. There was a note of sadness there as well as a great deal of concern. "I was hoping to wait until matters were slightly less fluid in Highever before we tackled our other issue."

Senior Torrin sighed, tapping the rim of his ale mug against his top lip thoughtfully.

"And…" the First Enchanter added, in a lowered voice. "Some rather worrying rumours have been emerging from our northern sister countries."

"I have heard some of it, Irving," Torrin acknowledged. "Surely we cannot afford to interfere in matters outside our jurisdiction? That would be suicide, I imagine."

"And can you think of anyone who you would send into such a powder keg of controversy and strife?"

Torrin smiled. _Only one…_

"Maker, I wish I could retire and leave this all to you Torrin…" Irving said unexpectedly.

"Don't you dare, First Enchanter. You know how I despise being Tower-bound."

"Hmph," Irving snorted. "We will see. We will see. Traditionally the best brewer of ale becomes the First Enchanter. You know that as well as I."

"Not if he's a fast runner, First Enchanter." _And I intend to run damned fast…_Torrin added to himself. Raising his mug, he stepped back into the pile of merry Templars; an oxymoron if he ever sat down to think about it. He didn't. He fully intended – instead – to enjoy the fruits of his hard-won labour.

For now.

-oo-


	66. Roof With A View

A/N: I know I keep repeating myself with this message, but it needs to be said, because you folk truly are wonderful: thank you to sticking with the story so far and for taking the time out to read and especially, review. Alyce's journey has been so much fun with all of you riding along with me, making sure that when I stick my head out of the window, I don't get too many bugs in my teeth.

Hope you're still enjoying! And best wishes to all for an incredible New Year! Year of the Dragon seems appropriate for Dragon Age obsessives, doesn't it...?

-oo-

**Chapter 66 – Roof With A View**

The stone felt like a heated brick under her cheek. Alyce squeezed her hands around the letter and closed her eyes, letting her skin drink in the sun. She felt chilled from within, despite the warmth of the day. Behind her, curled up against a chimney pot was Greagoir; fast asleep. She had put down enough repulsion shields around the perimeter of the roof that she felt confident he would be safe without constant supervision to make sure he didn't plunge to his death if he woke while she hadn't been watching.

It amazed her how adaptable he had been; expanding his world to fit their new home far more easily than Dagna had. With his third birthday fast approaching, Greagoir's confidence in himself had grown…perhaps a little_ too_ much, seemingly reserving his cheekier moments for her. He spent every day with Morwenna's two girls, his admiration for them bordering on obsessive. The only time he was not in their company was either when he was asleep or when the girls were at their lessons. Mother Mallol considered him far too young for letter learning, but Ser Ryan had been teaching him the basics including – much to Alyce's disapproval – _The Chant_.

Alyce was quite sure Neria's swamp witch friend would have been thoroughly appalled at her god child being indoctrinated (not to mention, the _irony_), but Ser Ryan had _insisted, _in that quiet, Templar-like way of his that nullified any attempt at argument.

She still hadn't told Ser Ryan about Greagoir's origins. To be quite honest she wasn't too sure how to go about it, or whether she even _should_. Quite apart from the fact that it would be nigh impossible to explain the existence of a child with the soul of an _old god _to a devout _Andrastian_, Greagoir had taken to the ex-Templar like a suckerfish to a whale and she didn't want to ruin the developing relationship between the two. When Greagoir had asked her whether Ryan was his 'papa', she simultaneously wanted to cry big, fat, sentimental tears and throw herself in front of a stampeding herd of bronto.

Alyce knew she had to tell Ser Ryan _some _time. Possibly in this lifetime and _definitely_ before anyone else told him, or he found out through other means. Not that the latter was likely; the story of Greagoir's beginnings being wrapped within layer upon layer of secrecy by both the Commander of the Grey and the First Enchanter.

_The Commander of the Grey…_

Alyce sighed into the stone, the parchment of Neria's letter rustling conspicuously in her hand. It had been delivered personally by Warden Butter Wouldn't Melt in His Mouth. He hadn't stayed, which was just as well as Aunt Mildred appeared to have taken an _interest _in Warden Howe. There would have been no telling what kind of outcome there would have been if her Aunt had unleashed the full fury of her questioning abilities on the unsuspecting Warden. Aunt Mildred and tactless, direct interrogation were like Antivans and assassination: both had made it into a fine art form such that one could not exist without the other. It would have been messy and uncomfortable and…

"I hope you realise that if you poke me, I will probably be startled into leaping off this parapet and you would find yourself a widower before we even took our marital vows."

Alyce opened one eye, needing to make a quick adjustment so that her view was not limited to Ser Ryan's kneecaps. He assisted by joining her on her makeshift stone seat. She frowned at him.

"You look…different…" she said before he could reply.

His eyebrows rose helpfully, which was not particularly helpful at all.

The next clue he gave her was a folding of his arms across his mailed chest, causing the tear drop of the Cousland Coat of Arms on his tunic to develop two demon horns. _Ah-ha!_ She jabbed a finger into his chest.

"You've had a haircut!" she announced, exultant.

One eyebrow rose slightly higher than the other. "You cut my hair, Alyce," he reminded her.

"I knew that." She chewed on her lip. After pestering him so long – and true it was only in jest – he had agreed to let her cut his hair. When it had come to it however, she could only bring herself to trim the ends, leaving the bulk of his wavy mahogany hair hanging well below his shoulders and curling around his ears. Of course, just to put him at his ease, she had spent a good deal of time running her hands through his hair; winding thick strands around every finger…just so he wouldn't feel like she was making a half-hearted, cursory job of it.

Clearly.

Really.

_Bastard shouldn't have better hair than me, anyway…_

"And you look…fabulous!" Alyce added. "It suits you, that…windblown, standing on a cliff top in a stiff breeze look. Very romantic. I can hear every girl in Highever Village spontaneously bearing your children as we speak."

His eyes narrowed. "You're babbling, Alyce," he observed. "And you only babble when you've either done something wrong, about to do something wrong or you are contemplating doing something wrong."

"Absolutely not, Mr Smarty-breeches-with-the-Cousland-House-tabahhhhh…Ah!"

He reached out in the short distance between them and pressed his forefinger to the end of her nose. "The penny drops, I see," he commented.

"Only the personal guard of the Teyrn wears the Cousland sweat drop and toothpicks," Alyce said breathlessly.

"Tear drop," he corrected her solemnly, though his eyes twinkled at her. "And they are spears, not toothpicks."

"In a pinch, they might well be…" she suggested. Her frown deepened as she continued to scrutinise him. "But the tabard is black, not white…" Alyce added. "Huh?" What did that mean?

"True, this colour hasn't been worn since the young lords left for Rivain…" Clue number three. Or was it four? Alyce had lost track. Either way, all of them had been quite frankly, utterly useless as clues.

"Look," Alyce sighed, rubbing her forehead with a thumb. "You're just going to have to pretend that I'm incredibly thick and just tell me and you are not to say that I _am_, alright?"

His smile was somewhat self-deprecating, almost _embarrassed _to have to reveal the next piece of information to her and yet, he appeared proud and pleased with himself at the same time. The little boy with hands firmly stuffed in the pockets of his bloomers that existed inside Ser Ryan would peek out from time to time to hurl a conker or steal a bit of forbidden mulberry pie…and Alyce quite enjoyed waving the boiled sweetie to help him emerge.

"A promotion," he told her. "Captain of the Teyrn's personal Guard."

"Captain?" Alyce repeated. "Captain…" _Do I have to call him that now? Not 'Ser Ryan' any more, but 'Captain Tremayne'? Sounds like piracy. Huh, no. He'll always be 'that bloody Templar' to me…_Alyce extended a hand, smoothing the fabric of the captain's uniform. All she could manage was to reduce the two horns to one; the tear drop looking more like a stylised heart; the kind that lovelorn apprentices drew in the margins of their Hex texts.

"I understand it's something of a wedding gift," Ryan added sheepishly. "A tradition in the Cousland family. Men in direct employ of the Teyrn generally receive a married man's wage. Since the coronation of King Bryce however and the subsequent shuffling of titles, the captain's position became vacant."

Alyce nodded. Highever being one of the most established Teyrnirs with links to the great Calenhad himself; it had its own martial hierarchy. At the very bottom was the Amaranthine City Guard, similar to the one that kept the peace amongst the good citizens of Denerim. Above that, Highever Town Guard (which always confused Alyce, seeing as Amaranthine was called a 'city' and Highever still a 'town', but oh well…). The _Highever_ Guard (no town) was an extension of the Town Guard but had a much wider jurisdiction and slightly thicker boot soles as a result whereas the Highever _Castle _Guard was more populous, trained with sharper swords and were, from time to time, thrown at the enemies of Ferelden to try and make them go away. Then there was the cream – because well, cream always floated to the top where it congealed and became cheese (and then sunk back down again, but never mind) – the Cousland Guards (also known as the Teyrn's personal guard), who served the Teyrn and his family in the same way that the King's personal guard served the king.

Up until very recently, Aidan Cousland had held the position of 'Captain', the individual who oversaw and had responsibility for all the others; sort of like a Grand Vizier Guardsman. Since the inauguration of King Bryce the First, Fergus was now officially Teyrn. And with Fergus as Teyrn, that event in turn elevated Aidan to somewhere above a mere Grand Vizier of Everything to Lord Waiting in the Wings, or His Lordship The Spare.

It was, with very little reflection on Alyce Amell's part, rather appropriate for Aidan Cousland.

_I must remember to write that down so I don't forget…Aidan Cousland's gone spare…uh hur, hur, hur…_

"And they chose you," Alyce smiled at Ryan, flicking an invisible bit of lint from his shoulder capes.

"I hope that I will be able to prove their faith in me," Ryan told her with too much honesty. "I will certainly strive to be worthy of the position. Stop laughing…"

Alyce snorted through her nose. It was most uncomfortable, but it needed to be done. "It can't be any worse than Aiding and Abetting Cousland…"

"_Alyce…_" Ser Ryan began in a warning tone of voice. "I'll remind you that Fergus and Aidan Cousland now assume the titles of Crown Prince and Prince as well as Teyrn and..."

"Teyrn-in-Waiting?" she completed for him with a disrespectful chuckle. "And there's a difference isn't there?" she added, trying for a straight face and voice and failing on both counts. "One has fluffier ruffles; poofier pants?"

"I am not going to confirm or deny that particular supposition," Ryan told her, trying to keep _his _face and voice stern and winning on every front. "Because it would be ridiculous. And you are technically here at both the Teyrn _and _the King's pleasure."

Alyce heaved a dramatic sigh. "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan," she began. "I'm a mage…"

"So you keep reminding me."

"I'm supposed to be rude, obnoxious and completely unlikeable. I wouldn't be a proper mage otherwise. Speaking of which…"

Ser Ryan made a face at her which spoke volumes; libraries, entire countries' worth of archives about his own, personal opinion about the obnoxiousness or otherwise of _his _mage and of mages in general. It was an expression which Alyce thought was extremely adorable, but also, quite irrelevant and she ploughed on nevertheless. "Mother Mallol visited Aunt Mildred today. She took great pains in assuring me that Sister Maleficarum has been sent to Kirkwall for an indefinite period of religious reflection…or refraction…regurgitation…whatever it is you religious types do in sunny Kirkwall. Do you find that strange?" she asked. "At all?"

Alyce's eyes danced while she watched her intended squirm. He had not deemed it important enough to tell her about his previous association with the lovely Chantry Sister. Alyce had only heard from Morwenna about Ser Ryan's youthful 'grand passion'; the one that ultimately led to his joining the Order.

Squirmage however, did not last more than a couple of seconds. Only one feather was ruffled and it had been merely _down…_

"I don't see anything at all strange or out of the ordinary in deploying a member of the Chantry to a sister city." Ser Ryan even managed a casual, uncaring shrug.

"Well, she was quite insistent on making sure that I understood that _I _need not to worry." Alyce managed a tolerable shake of her own shoulders. "I simply wondered why that was."

"I doubt it," he gave her a very direct look that turned the squirmy thumbscrews on _her. _"Nor am I about to entertain you with torrid tales of my misspent youth."

"Aww!" And: "Wait. How torrid are we talking here? Steamy torrid or slightly tepid bath water torrid?"

"Neither," he replied. "Both. And I am quite sure Her Grace meant that you needn't concern yourself about being further harassed in your Circle duties by Sister _Melody._"

"That was my next stop," Alyce sighed in disappointment. "She gave Petra an awfully hard time, that Sister Melliflous..." She gave a small, tired shake of her head, returning it to the hot stone. As she did so, Neria's letter rustled in her hand. She glanced downwards; her look of unhappiness increasing, especially now that she had exhausted ammunition for teasing ex-Templars. For today at least.

"And so…" Ser Ryan said in a new tone of voice that was clearly meant to lift her sinking mood. "After tomorrow we shall be husband and wife."

Alyce ran her thumb along a fold in Neria's letter. _I should tell him now…_

_I don't want to…_

"Alyce," Ser Ryan began, sounding both exasperated and concerned at the same time. "What is bothering you?"

She glanced towards him. "The sun's making my brain melt…" she pretended to yawn. _Old god…Maker's wrath…Why does everything have to be so complicated?_

_Maybe I shouldn't tell him after all…?_

_And then when Greagoir turns out to be history's most powerful mage, unleashing the power of old godliness on the world and joins with his other old god siblings and marches onto the Golden City with an entire horde of darkspawn and Tevinter mages, I'll just tell them…Wait, what am I going to tell them? Him? _

'_He's just a good kid who hung out with the wrong sort'?_

_Oh, I can see how _that's _going to go down…_

"This wouldn't be about Greagoir would it?"

Alyce's head whipped up so fast, the world upended and kept going, slipping sideways and falling into a deep, dark pit of astonishment. Or perhaps it had to do with the fact that all the blood had left her brain, pooling somewhere in the vicinity of her left big toe where it was doing absolutely no good whatsoever.

"G-G-G-Ger…"

"His name is quite easy to pronounce," Ser Ryan reminded her in the same way a creature with an opposable thumb would to an amoeba. "You are the one that gave it to him after all."

"You-you-you…!"

Ser Ryan sighed. "_Cariad,_" he began, "The Knight Commander is not the complete idiot you think him."

Alyce gave herself a wake-up shake. "I don't think the Knight Commander is an idiot at all!" she protested. "In fact, I think I'm rather fond of the old coot." She leant back against the parapet, squinting up at the cloud streaked sky. "He was always a bit like Aunt Mildred, but with a beard and more shouting." Sliding a look towards him, Alyce wondered whether he had mentioned the word 'idiot' in relation to the Knight Commander because _he _or any of his colleagues thought the grizzled codger _was _a bit…well, dopey or not quite _there._

"No. I don't," Ser Ryan folded his arms again and gave her another one of his 'looks'; Templar Look 459, to be precise, under the chapter from the Templar's Official Instruction Manual for 'How To Show Your Mage Who's Boss'. And…had she just said that out loud?

"No. You didn't," Ser Ryan added, causing her to wonder whether mind-reading was one of those secret Templar techniques. "Your Aunt is quite correct; every expression and thought that crosses your pretty head appears clear as day on your face."

"Hah!" she pointed at him, with absolutely no idea why. It was just the principle of it…Her eyes grew wide as his words finally wriggled free of her ears and hit her brain. "You think I have a pretty head?"

"Fishing for compliments?"

"Yes!"

His response was merely a smile.

"Bastard."

"And…Knight Commander Greagoir has not been the highest ranking Templar in this country without knowing _exactly _what happens in his Tower."

'_His Tower'? _Alyce pursed her lips, but she remained silent. Ser Ryan had just echoed the First Enchanter's frequent, almost trademark saying...'_There is little that goes on in this Tower that I do not know about, (insert relevant name of apprentice here)'._ _Ah…how many times have I heard that?_ Clearly this was at the heart of the rivalry between the two elderly old badgers, but now was not the time to argue perceived ownership.

"He had some inkling why you needed to be sent to find Senior Enchanter Wynne during the Blight," Ser Ryan continued. "He also had an interest in the book of spells that Enchanter Niall translated. He was after all, one of the Templars present who assisted in dispelling the charms and hexes set on the original. And…" His gaze turned on Greagoir, his expression undecipherable. Alyce quelled the urge to snatch Greagoir from his sleeping spot and flee. She had nothing to fear from Ser Ryan…surely? Not where Greagoir was concerned.

Right?

"It seemed strange to the Knight Commander that messages from the Grey Wardens to you after young Greagoir arrived at the Tower of Magi were delivered _by hand, _when before any correspondence from Neria Surana were sent the same way as everyone else's. And not just by anyone's hand either, but by the Commander of the Grey's second in command."

"Because he was…he's the child of Neria's closest friend…" Alyce said, though rather weakly.

Ser Ryan cocked his head to the side. "Besides yourself, who else could be Neria Surana's most trusted friend?" he asked.

"I…I don't know…"

Keeping his attention on Greagoir, Ser Ryan continued as though he had not paused to allow her to answer his question. "There is very little known about the Order of the Grey. Quite apart from the secrecy they surround themselves with; they rarely interact with the general populace, keeping for the most part to themselves, except when recruiting. Then too, apart from a brief mention in historical texts of disgrace by the Warden Commander that led to all Wardens in this country being expelled, today's Grey Wardens have existed in Ferelden since barely long enough to gain any more information about them…if one is inclined to look."

"And…you've been looking?" Alyce asked morosely.

"No, Alyce. I have not. The secrecy that surrounds the Order is there for a reason. They are ruthless by necessity. They do not live long, they do not involve themselves in politics. Not voluntarily in any case," he added as Alyce opened her mouth to argue. "And…in general they do not appear to marry or have children."

"I didn't say Neria's friend was a Grey Warden." Alyce tried to laugh the comment off, but it came out more like a strangled choke.

"With all that travelling around during the Blight, Surana made no life-long bosom friends amongst her companions?" he asked. "Including her fellow Grey Warden?"

_Please don't say Leliana…_Alyce warned herself mentally at the mention of 'bosom'. _And don't think of anyone else Neria might have slept with during the Blight…_because the list, from what Alyce could gather was far too long for her brain to contain. Or comprehend.

She sighed at the effort. "Fine. How much do you know then? Or should I say, how much does the Knight Commander know?"

"He knows that Greagoir is…'special'," Ser Ryan admitted. "Special enough to assign one of his best Templars to oversee Greagoir's development specifically."

_That deep, dark pit, _Alyce thought miserably, _just became bottomless…_The words fell into place somewhat reluctantly, mocking her as they moved into place in her head.

"You're working for Greagoir…The Knight Commander…" she could barely say the words. "You always were. This…affection you showed Greagoir is all just a great, big, fa…"

"_No_, Alyce." He gripped her arm. Hard. Giving her a shake, he forced her to look at him. "I have come to care for young Greagoir. When I look at him I see a child, not a monster; a child with a pure and untainted heart. I know not _why _he was created to begin with..."

"The soul of an old god…" Alyce whispered.

"The soul, not the memory," he pointed out, the ferocity in his voice surprising her even more than his revelations about what he and the Knight Commander already knew about this whole business.

"So many fear the unknown Ryan," Alyce swiped at her eyes with a sleeve. "I don't want flaming pitchforks and a marched exalt on Greagoir. Templars _swooping _down and…what would you do if he turns into…something…that…" She couldn't even say it. _Something bad. _She could not imagine Greagoir doing anything worse than nicking an extra currant biscuit or dipping his hand into the horses' barrel of molasses after he'd been specifically told not to. She didn't fear for everyone else, even though she knew she should. She could only fear for Greagoir; fear that he could be harmed by those who feared _him_.

When Ser Ryan curled an arm about her shoulders, pulling her in close, she resisted, wanting instead to head towards Greagoir. There were such things as invisibility spells, protection charms…but what kind of life would he lead if people couldn't see him either? If he didn't have the benefit of laughing and playing with friends? Of falling over and learning to get up again? Of being able to learn that people could be hurt as much as he could be hurt? That he was not on his own, but part of the whole?

"Alyce…" His grip on her was just as fierce; his arm an inescapable band of iron. "I would do the same as I would to you, were _you _to turn…bad."

Her fingernails scraped along the surface of the stone as she curled her hands into fists. Turning her head to glare at him, she told him, "I will _never _turn bad."

"Nor will I allow you to, _cariad…_" he told her, the expression in his eyes causing Alyce to think of ice and how much she really needed some right now.

Gripping Neria's letter more tightly, Alyce took a deep breath…and then told him, in a much shortened version, the facts as she knew it. It wasn't everything. Not everything could be voiced so easily, nor could _everything _be told. Ryan was smart enough in any case to fill in the blanks where she drew vague outlines.

Neria's letter burning a hole in her hand by the time she had almost finished, Alyce gave Ser Ryan an extremely potted version of its contents: about the last encounter Neria and her fellow Grey Warden had with Flemeth; the opportunity Neria had had to dispose of Flemeth's current earthly body yet chose not to. The Grey Wardens owed their lives to Flemeth. Without her, Ferelden would not have had Grey Wardens to defeat the Blight. Neria had lied to her friend Morrigan about the death of Flemeth. It had been one of the many deceptions Neria had performed; and one of the many the Warden Mage did not regret.

_Flemeth told us that we would not meet again, Alyce…And…she had not been old. There had been fire and life in her and it had not been because she had possessed or absorbed the life force of another. _

_She did not intend to pursue the god child and make it her own…_Neria had gone on. _Of that I am sure…_

The words of the First Enchanter came back to Alyce then: '_Some things are worth preserving'. _It had been a statement similar to that provided by the witch to convince Neria to agree to the ritual that would harness the soul of the old god within the Archdemon. Was that all it was? Why? Why would _Flemeth_ be interested in saving something like that? Because she had a personal interest? _Well, obviously…_Which, in Alyce's mind led to thoughts that went to places that did not have maps and if they did, it would have had the words 'Here Be Dragons' clearly marked in darkened areas.

Alyce gave herself another shake. She did not feel lighter for having told Ser Ryan what she knew about Greagoir. She only felt as though she had burdened him too, but at the very least (she reminded herself)…_the Knight Commander's 'best Templar' eh?_ Clearly, from the scars Ser Ryan now bore, he was definitely not Knight Commander's _favourite _Templar and she told him so.

"He's my godfather, Alyce," Ser Ryan admitted somewhat reluctantly. "All my father's children save Geraint were passed over the font by Ser Greagoir as he was known then. And he did not show me lenience because he could not afford to be accused of favouritism. The punishment had to fit the crime..."

"What crime!" Alyce hissed. "What you said was a fabrication!"

"Fabrication or not, there were witnesses to the claim that I chose to make. The Knight Commander did what he had to. He was not…happy by my choosing to leave the Order."

Alyce looked into Ser Ryan's face and saw the words etched into the frown lines of his forehead. She poked the deepest crease between his eyes. "If you start talking about redemption and atonement, I swear I'm going to freeze you and chuck you over this wall myself," she warned him. Anger flashed briefly in his eyes, followed swiftly by surprise and then amusement. He made a token attempt at assessing the long drop over the side of the parapet wall.

"That statue of Andraste would break my fall, surely," he told her.

"That is _not_ Andraste…my aunt would not…" she peeked over the wall herself. "Ever…well maybe it is, but that's not the point. You would still be impaled on her bucket."

"Are you sure you're not simply threatening me because you know Greagoir favours me over you?" he asked.

"Oh, that's just bollocks!" she exclaimed indignantly. "You arrogant walnut! Favours _you_? How the Fade could he do that when…"

When he laughed, she knew she'd been had. Again. So he was lucky that he tempered the mockery with a satisfyingly slow and indulgent kiss that brought the rest of the blood back to her head, even it made her brain fizz and her fingertips tingle. Or maybe it was because she'd been sitting in the same position for so long, clutching Neria's letter that the re-start of her circulation brought on a severe attack of pins and needles. Still, it wasn't bad going for an old, completely-past-it doddery old codger of four and thirty years who hadn't kissed anything but the Grand Cleric's official Chantry ring since the age of fifteen.

On the whole, Alyce was rather glad she'd ensnared the Divine Ryan with her womanly wiles…which thought led to a sudden fit of the giggles because she was quite sure she didn't _own _any wiles, womanly or otherwise.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked, his breath warm against her lips.

"Why are you stopping?" she demanded.

Ser Ryan's eyes slid sideways. Alyce followed his gaze to a pair of large, brown inquisitive eyes above a snub nose and cherub's bow mouth. Greagoir was frowning at them both somewhat sleepily, looking first to Ryan then back to her. Stuffing his fists onto his hips, his frown turned into a glower before growling at Alyce…

"No _eating_ my papa!" his little piping voice demanded authoritatively.

And _that_ put an end to conversation…or anything else.

For now.

-oo-


	67. The Morning After

A/N: I've got to stop watching my word count…Thanks so much for reading folks. It's appreciated…_always._

Just a slight warning on this chapter – contains implied naughtiness and mention of cake, but fairly mild. I'm sure you'll let me know if I need to slap red stickers across paragraphs and/or words. If it helps any, none of this involves Oghren and so is above board and fairly sedate. A gentle stroll through the park holding…ooh, er…_hands…_

-oo-

**Chapter 67 – The Morning After**

…and the bridegroom wore grey…

While the bride…

People said later (after more than a few barrels of very good Greenfell ale and spiced mead) that although it was customary for the _bride _to be the main focus of attention and admiration, no one could recall with any accuracy what the bride wore, never mind what she had said or whether she had indeed turned up at all. Perhaps it was the quantity of ale consumed that caused the memory fog. Perhaps it was the amount of food consumed; or the warmth of the day promoting mental torpidity. After a fairly short time, guests simply gave up on the premise that the groom did not look _un_happy, some sort of ceremony did actually take place and they cheerfully got on with the more important business of eating drinking, dancing and having a good time.

In the shade of the oak and mostly concealed by a large trestle table, Alyce balanced her plate of half-eaten raspberry tart on her knees and leant back against the trunk. The last time she had been at the centre of attention, a well of pure lyrium and a circle of hyper-vigilant Templars had been involved. This event felt like much the same and she was glad it was over so she could get on with the business of…She giggled; a stupid sound to her ears. _Being married…_

_Damn, this is good mead…_

She tried counting the empty mugs beside her but drifted back to the remains of her tart, admiring a certain dark grey and silver-clad gentleman over the top of her fork. He turned away, partially obscured by foliage…She tried to track his progress – unsuccessfully - her attention caught by a peal of childish laughter nearby. The small boy skipping towards the dessert table turned briefly to grin at her. Alyce gave him an encouraging nod, wiping a proud tear from her eye when he pilfered two of the largest slices of plum cake from the dessert table. Sporting a permanent milk moustache and smeared with dirt, fruit tart and too much custard, Greagoir then proceeded to distribute his sugary plunder to Morwenna's daughters.

He'd been perfectly behaved today; covering himself with his lunch at the first opportunity, head-butting Mother Mallol in the Habit by accident and then tearing his brand new clothes on a stray nail. All he needed by the end of the day was to soil himself and step in something nasty and Alyce could honestly say she was happy with her little boy's progress.

Sighing in contentment, Alyce returned her attention to finding some way of removing her stockings in-party without anyone noticing. She paused when a large shadow fell across her legs.

Alyce redirected her gaze upwards.

"Oops," she grinned, remembering at the last moment to look a little bit guilty; the hint of a giggle the happy product of the combination of sun and too much mead.

"'Oops' indeed," the shadow said in a stern voice. Hunkering down by her wiggling feet, Ser Ryan took in the pile of empty goblets beside her and shot her a faint look of reproof.

"Mrs Tremayne," he began. "Have you had too much to drink?"

Alyce made a face at him. "You are not to call me Mrs Tremayne," she warned him. "People might think I'm your mother."

"You don't look anything like my mother," he assured her.

"Well, I'd hate for your mother to be tarred with my brush," she told him sagely. "Speaking of brushes…" she patted a relatively clear space beside her. Ryan complied, finding when he did, his new wife attempting to burrow into his side like a brocaded leech, her corsets creaking faintly in protest. She'd looked immensely uncomfortable in them – and _why _someone of Alyce's build had to wear such a torture device was beyond him - but his sister had mentioned words like 'occasion' and 'silhouette' and reminded him that men knew nothing about these sorts of things.

No. Men knew absolutely nothing about _air _and _breathing…Maker forbid…_He had also rather liked his new wife's shape before he married her and he was looking forward to returning her to it as soon as possible.

After a few moments more burrowing, Ser Ryan rapped the top of her head gently with his knuckles.

"You said something about brushes…?" he prompted her.

"I have nothing to say about brushes," she confessed. "It was all a cunning ploy to lure you into being my pillow…_Maker_," a groan of discomfort managed to escape the confines of rigid boning and unnatural compression. "I've either had too much to eat or this corset is far too tight. What kind of sadistic mind would create a _wearable _iron maiden and sell it to gullible women as undergarments? I ask you?"

Ser Ryan kissed the top of her upturned nose. He had no answer that was repeatable within earshot of the Revered Mother and impressionable children and so kept his opinion to himself. "How did Morwenna manage to convince you to wear this in the end?" he said instead.

Alyce's nose wrinkled at him. "She threatened to withhold…um…It's..." She blinked up at him; the cogs turning ponderously in her head visible through the soft grey of her eyes. Her modestly scant show of flesh flushed in embarrassment but her recovery was admirable. "It's only for today anyway." She shrugged, adding, "and still…um, lighter than the Circle's winter-issue robes. Even if breathing, walking and bending more than ten degrees at the waist is not an option."

Had they been alone and not in company with people who had been dispensing husbandry tips or religious advice to him all afternoon, Ryan would have passed on a suggestion or two of his own for returning some measure of comfort to her. He thought of the palm-sized dagger in his boot – placed there out of habit when he dressed this morning – wondering whether he could relieve her of the corset in public without removing any of her outer garments or the Revered Mother's head imploding. _When is that woman going to leave anyway?_

_When are _any_ of these people going to leave?_

Could he get away with abducting his own wife in the middle of their wedding dinner?

Ser Ryan found a finger waving cheekily in front of his face. He followed it back to a rather smug grin.

"Have _you _had too much to drink?" she asked in a mocking, sing-song voice. "Your cheeks have gone rather pink."

"I don't think I've had nearly _enough_ to drink to turn any part of me pink," he told her, pretending to take offence. "Seeing as most of the last few hours have been spent not in actual drinking or eating, but in talking to people…" He added a long, considering look. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

"Me?" she blinked at him in a fairly good impersonation of provable innocence. "Absolutely nothing."

"No threatening anyone with bodily scarring…glaring, glowering or general shows of disgruntlement?" he persisted.

"This is the happiest day of my life," Alyce sniffed defensively. "If people chose to talk to _you_ instead, that's their lookout, not mine."

"And you hiding under the tables had nothing to do with it either?" he cocked an eyebrow at her persistently.

She blew a raspberry-scented raspberry at him. "Why are you here again?" she enquired loftily.

"I was invited to a wedding," he informed her simply.

"Oh? Did it go well?"

"Apparently," he said with a roll of his eye.

"Oh, that's nice," Alyce sighed. "I'm not for weddings myself, but I'm glad this one turned out well." Dropping her head back down to his shoulder, she smothered a yawn. "Groom is a bit _dashing_. I'm thinking about stealing him from the bride later." She slid a hopeful look up at him. "Think I'll get away with it?"

"I'm not too sure…" he told her thoughtfully. "Bride is a bit of a dragon, so I understand; just as soon turn you into cinders as look at you…"

"Ooh…! You bl…" Ryan made sure her sentence could not be completed. Considering their company, he felt it his duty to ensure innocent ears would not be corrupted. She tasted of raspberries and warm cinnamon and promises of later and wishing it was now, the ever-vigilant Templar in him determining his current train of thought as impious…the common soldier in him arguing he was not being nearly as impious as he'd like.

_Definitely abduction…_

"Take me away from all this…" Perhaps if he could convince _her _to do the abducting, his soul might remain relatively untainted.

She chuckled at him. "I hope you realise how dumb that just sounded." She continued to laugh because clearly she did not believe how serious he was. "I am going to have so much fun _mocking _you…in front of all your friends…"

_Well then…_In a single, fluid movement, Ser Ryan had risen to his feet, dragging her with him and lifting him onto his shoulder. _Damn the Revered Mother…_he glared at anyone who dared to look outraged. This was his wedding and _his _wife and if he wanted to steal her away before the final blessing, drag her up to their room like nothing more than a common savage and ravish her to within an inch of her life well…

He touched his forelock respectfully as he passed Mother Mallol anyway; blinking in surprise as she hastily threw a few words from _Canticles _after them. Their souls now guarded from corruption, he continued onwards to growing applause, cheers and catcalls. _Too late to back down now…_The loudest and most inventive cries originated from Alyce's apprentice Dagna, whose suggestions – he was sure - could only be performed if one was a dwarf, heavily-armoured and of the smith persuasion.

His momentum dissipated by the time he reached the top of the staircase. Should he take her to his quarters (which would mean going back down stairs again), or…somewhere else? While he decided, a finger poked him helpfully in his left kidney.

"Last door on the right," Alyce sighed, shaking her head.

Shaking his own head, Ryan obediently turned right, heading towards the indicated door. When he placed her on her feet, she cast him a dark look and headed towards the window. Watching her fuss with the curtains and other objects in the room, he battled a brief bout of self-doubt, focussing instead on the long line of cloth-covered buttons that ran from between her shoulder blades to the floor.

It was a _lot _of buttons.

He thought of the knife again; the idea of Morwenna being annoyed with him if he damaged Alyce's gown in any way renewing his enthusiasm for expeditious apparel disassembly.

"Oh! Look at this!"

She'd been busying herself with a box left on the bedside table. Removing ribbon and lid, Alyce lifted out the contents for inspection

"What the Fa…Hey!"

Ser Ryan had by now moved on from _buttons _to laces and ties in his head. When she held the garment up to his shoulder, the laces and ties had been deftly removed along with the remains of her corset and shift and he was in the process of reminding himself to remove the pins from her hair at some point. _So much to do…The sooner I get started…_

"This must be from Ser Hanleigh!" he vaguely heard her say. "Look." She was jabbing at the shapes woven into the material; her jabbering passing over his ears without going in to say hello to his brain.

"Archdemons!" she chuckled, the word barely registering. "Andraste's sweet cheeks, this is so cute; matching Archdemon nightshirts from the _House of Herren_! Oh look; this one must be for you."

"Alyce…" Ryan found his voice, having clawed through the growing lists of 'things to do' burning through his brain.

"Oh you have to put it on," she was telling him, "I want to see what you look like in it."

He took the garment from her obediently, but threw it on to the bed. Retrieving the nightshirt from her other hand it too followed its companion. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

"We won't need those tonight," he informed her, his look clearly conveying what else they would not be wearing.

It took a second or two for her to process this idea; her pale skin from the shoulders up turning as deep pink as the raspberry tartlets she'd so cheerfully been scoffing. Nor did her ability for rapid recovery fail her. With deliberate and intense concentration, her hand moved – shakily – to the front of his doublet.

He didn't mind that she fumbled inexpertly at the toggles; her gaze never leaving his.

"In that case," she said rather breathlessly, managing the top-most tie. "You won't be needing _this _either."

Ser Ryan grinned his lopsided grin, the decade of years between them dwindling to mere seconds and then nothing. _So much for past experience…_he mocked himself.

"I love you," he murmured, her lips soft against his, because he did, with every cell and every breath; with every day they had been apart and with every lost moment. _Now…_and tomorrow and yesterday and everything in between and everything that was and wasn't but could have been, should have and might have been.

"Me too," she replied, a small frown appearing. "Well, not _me…_I don't mean _me_. What I mean is…not that…because it's…You know, you're incredibly distracting."

"That's the whole point," he told her.

"Huh…" she smirked. "Terrific…just…Oh!" She slapped her hand to her mouth.

"What?" Ryan asked, hoping she hadn't left the stove on or…_what am I thinking?_

Leaving half of the toggles for now, she wound her arms around his neck, pulling the tie from his ponytail. "That's better and…hm…"

"Hm?"

"I love you too," she whispered.

"Good," he told her, enormously relieved for some reason. "Buttons however…" he added, the two of them falling conveniently onto the bed. "Buttons, I'm not too sure about…

-oo-

Dagna raised her hand. She lowered it, chewing anxiously on her lip. With a soft cry of exasperation, she raised her hand again.

_This is bad. This really, really bad…_she told herself. _I can't do this! They're newlyweds…_

"Stone cursed…"

In Orzammar freshly bonded couples rarely left their rooms, chandeliers, closets _whatever _for…_weeks, _she reminded herself miserably. It was traditional. Expected. Family and neighbours would drop parcels of food at front doorsteps or shoot them through open windows so that the couple _didn't _have to…stop whatever it was they were doing and after so much to-ing and fro-ing that Alyce had gone through to actually, finally pin Ser Ryan down, Dagna fully expected her mentor to tie her Templar to the bed, chandelier, dressing table…_whatever _to completely _to _and _fro _him until the man dropped down dead or…

"What are you doing?"

Dagna squeaked, falling against the closed bedroom door with a heavy thump.

She stared in disbelief at the pale apparition before her.

"What am I doing?" Dagna repeated half in disgust, the other half acutely disappointed. "What are _you _doing?"

"What do you mean 'what am I doing'?" Alyce asked. "And anyway," she added. "I asked you first."

"W-we-we-we…" Dagna spluttered.

"Wee wee wee?" Alyce cocked an eyebrow at her. "That's your nug impersonation right? I thought I heard that last night after the barrel of lichen ale was tapped. Very accurate I thought."

"Never mind tapping barrels of ale!" Dagna snapped petulantly. "Why aren't _you_ tapping your Templar?"

Alyce gave her apprentice a sidelong look. "Why, do you need to get his attention?"

"I…I…Argh!" Dagna exclaimed, even more exasperated at Alyce than she had been with herself. "There's a visitor!" the dwarf shouted at her. "For you! Serenna put him in the Spotted Parlour! He _says…_" Dagna was sneering now. "That he needs to speak to you. Apparently it's so important that he would come all the way here, _uninvited_ the morning after your _wedding night _when you should be hanging upside down off a chandelier with your new husband, instead of meeting random visitors! Honestly!" She threw her hands up into the air. "_Humans!_"

Alyce resisted the automatic urge to pat the dwarf on her head, just in case Dagna blew up like an overripe bottle of pickled plums, which she currently resembled. She managed a smile, opening the bedroom door behind her and stepping inside. She was careful to keep the dwarf in full view all the time. Once inside, the door closed, she pressed her ear up against the wood, biting back laughter until she was quite sure Dagna was well out of earshot.

"Was that Dagna just now?" Ser Ryan asked from the bed. "What did you do to her?"

Alyce ducked her head, chuckling. "I swear, that dwarf teaches _me _more than I teach her. If nothing else," she added, bouncing onto the bed beside him. "By the end of her apprenticeship, I will be Ferelden's eminent expert in dwarven mating rituals, customs and _techniques_."

Ser Ryan stared, both fascinated and horrified at the same time. "Unmanly as it sounds," he said slowly. "The thought terrifies me."

Chuckling, Alyce leant forward for a kiss that was far too short and tasted like chalk and mint.

"Can't stay to…chat," she told him regretfully. "I have a visitor waiting downstairs for me."

"Visitor?" Ser Ryan frowned, looking thoughtful. He tossed a quick look through the window, checking the level of the sun outside. _Still early…_"Give me a moment," he instructed her. "I'll come with you."

She wiggled her eyebrows at him in a way that had him shaking his head in dismay. "I meant _accompany _you," he clarified, with another shake of his head.

Alyce blew a raspberry at him, sliding off the bed with an added eye-roll. His arm shot out, dragging her abruptly backwards. She fell into his lap, with a brilliant view up his nostrils. _No one should have attractive nostrils…_she thought with an inner sigh. _Is there anything about his man that isn't beautiful? _

Stretching down awkwardly, he managed an upside-down kiss to her chin. "By the way," he began. "I love you…just in case I forgot to mention in the last…half an hour or so."

She grinned up at him. _Really, attractive nose hairs…_Straightening, she returned the favour, nibbling at the end of his nose affectionately. "Well me, Andraste and _Holy Maker…_" she told him cheekily. "If those exclamations were anything to go by."

He pushed her off his lap. "Just tell me you love me and go!"

"I thought you were coming with me?" she blinked at him.

"_Alyce…_"

"I love you, you…hm, can't think of anything bad to say right now."

"Good," he said, reaching for the shirt he had discarded the evening before. There were holes in it; and tiny scorch marks peppered the material. Shaking his head, he threw the shirt over the end of the bed and headed towards the armoire at the other end of the room. "That being the case, I won't have to Holy Smite you again, will I?"

-oo-

They made their way down the stairs, Ser Ryan's hand at her back feeling oddly possessive and protective at the same time. Alyce cast a look at him, baffled by his grim expression. About to ask him the reason for this gravity, she was forestalled by an excited, high-pitched cry. Greagoir launched himself at Ryan's knees, rewarded by being snatched up and dangled upside down briefly. Alyce tousled the top of their son's head. He smelled like fresh milk and fried egg, so clearly he'd just come from the kitchen and breakfast. _I could do with some of that myself…Wonder if there's any salted pork left…_

Together they entered the Spotted Parlour, their laughter ceasing abruptly as the visitor stood to face them.

Beside her, Alyce heard Ser Ryan's breath hiss between his teeth. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his arms tighten around Greagoir; causing the boy to cast a confused look up at Ryan and then towards her. The abrupt silence felt eerie, but there was nothing to fear…surely?

"I'm sorry to intrude," the visitor said with an apologetic grimace. "I understand…congratulations are in order…"

Alyce nodded politely, worried by Ser Ryan's continuing silence. She thought of _Neria_ when she looked at the visitor and: _he doesn't look like him…at all…_

As the moment of awkwardness dragged on, Alyce's skin prickled anxiously. With still no sign of Ser Ryan making any attempt at conversation or even acknowledgment of the guest's presence, Alyce forced her brain to wake and her body to move.

"Um…" _What am I supposed to say?_ "Thank you, Your…"

"Warden is fine," the visitor interrupted her hastily. "Seeing as that is what I am now. I guess you can try to take the man out of the Warden, but you can't take the…er…You know that made more sense in my head."

"And what would a _Warden…" _- when Ser Ryan finally spoke, it was in a carefully controlled, accurately measured voice that startled Alyce with its suddenness as well as its intensity - "be doing _here?_" he asked.

"Oh I…" the man looked helplessly at Alyce, his eyes straying towards Greagoir. _God child…_Alyce thought. _He knows…can Grey Wardens tell, _she wondered…?

"I thought I should…" he gave up trying to be friendly to Ryan and turned instead to Alyce. "You're Neria's best friend after all and I wanted to see the…You know, I really should introduce myself, just in case…"

"We know who you are," Ser Ryan cut him off in the same clipped, unfriendly tone. Alyce shot him a look tinged with panic and a plea to just…_stop_. _What are you doing?_ She thought furiously at him, but he wasn't looking at her. His attention – and apparently, ire for whatever reason – remained on the Warden.

"Look, I don't want to cause any trouble," the Warden explained. "I heard about…" The Warden waved a hand towards Greagoir. "And the two of you…and I wanted to make sure that…"

"Make sure of what?" Ser Ryan demanded. "What interest would a Warden have with my son?"

The Warden's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He looked at Alyce in confusion, returning his gaze to the ex-Templar and child. "Oh," he said. "Your…son?"

"Yes," Ser Ryan confirmed simply. "_My _son."

"I…see…" the Warden said slowly, casting yet another, questioning look at Alyce.

As if the tension in the room was not bad enough, Greagoir gave a small whimper and wrapped his arms about Ser Ryan's neck, burying his head under the collar of Ryan's shirt. When he murmured a plaintive _'Papa…'_, Alyce's hold on her patience snapped completely.

An exasperated explosion of air accompanied an angry stamp of her foot, directed at both men. "Oh for the love of…!" she began, clutching at her hair. "Both of you _stand_ down!" _Bunch of idiots…_"This is ridiculous!"

New husband or not, she reserved the most heated glare for Ser Ryan. He was supposed to be the _sensible _one; the older, more mature and experienced of the two. Acting like a possessive, over-protective she-wolf was not going to make things better and was only upsetting Greagoir…

"Greagoir is _not _a lucky wishbone to be fought over!"

She narrowed her eyes at the Grey Warden. "And _you_…King…Your _Majesty, _ex-Majesty, Warden, _what_ever…This is _not _a discussion that should involve _this_ child. Now, before I enclose the both of you in crushing pris…and yes, I am fully aware both of you are fully capable of dispelling, dissecting and disparaging any of my spells. It doesn't mean I'm not going to try!"

"And I second that motion!"

Ser Ryan and Alyce swivelled. Standing in the open door was a woman; an elf, slightly built but heavily armoured for a mage. Her hair was shorter than Alyce remembered. Cropped short it gave her an even more delicate air; as though she might be a figment of one's imagination and after a mere blink, would be gone. The amethyst eyes were older, even more cynical and masked, even while they twinkled in humour.

The humour, Alyce knew instinctively, had nothing whatsoever to do with anything _funny._

Behind Commander of the Grey, Neria Surana stood Nathaniel Howe; pale, bland and carefully leeched of expression. Ser Ryan bristled at the new Wardens' appearance, but finally catching Alyce's eye, took a half-step backwards. He raised his eyebrows at her, but said nothing else, maintaining his determined hold on Greagoir.

It occurred to Alyce then that they were outnumbered. The little, niggling thought at the back of her head telling her that despite her magic, they were in a house of women, elderly, young children and unarmed against three battle-hardened and experienced Grey Wardens; one quick with a sword, another lightning fast with magic and the third with abilities capable of rendering her magic completely useless.

All in all, it made her, quite frankly…mad as _hell_.

-oo-


	68. Tears of the Fade

-oo-

**Chapter 68 – Tears of the Fade**

Neither Alyce nor Ser Ryan saw Greagoir's face scrunch into the unmistakeable portent to an imminent tempest. For such a tiny thing, he'd been known to startle entire flocks of roosting birds from trees; terrify barnfuls of cows into souring their milk and fish leaping into nets from streams simply by the volume, pitch and duration of his screams. Not for anything did anyone who lived in Amell Cottage carry a set of wadded wool to insert into ears at the first downward turn of that little strawberry-kissed mouth. Greagoir's tantrums were few and far between, but those that did occur more than made up for the lack of frequency.

If Ser Ryan's attention had been on the child in his arms, he might have been able to act pre-emptively. But his focus had been on the ominous sparkle of anger in his wife's eyes; a far more worrying indication than the hint of a mere, childish upset. At the same time that Greagoir's bottom jaw dropped, lightning crackled in Alyce's hair, and Ryan could have sworn that the ground shook beneath their feet.

_Sound _emerged from Greagoir...and all Fade broke loose.

Or at least, everyone in the room turned briefly; temporarily; fleetingly…

_Stupid_.

Startled by the sudden, howling gale of Greagoir's terrified crying, Warden Alistair drew his sword. Though he immediately regretted it, it caused the Warden Commander to draw hers too; the double flash of metal prompting Alyce to take action before anyone else could. Dual rock fists slammed into both the former-King of Ferelden and the current Commander of the Grey, knocking them off their feet.

Alarmed at the sudden assault on his commander, Nathaniel Howe drew his blades, leaping to the elf's defence and…an arrow appeared out of…_somewhere_. It struck the door frame, splintering wood and shattering plaster. Ser Ryan ducked, shielding Greagoir with his body; his ears ringing from Greagoir's now hysterical screams. In the confusion he thought he saw Alyce _glowing _over his shoulder and the Warden Commander clambering to her feet, almost immediately hit by a Holy Smite…from a wholly unexpected arrival.

"Ah, ha ha! I've still got it!" _Father…! _Shock and surprise froze Ryan's limbs, stopping him from moving for several, crucial moments. Nathaniel Howe slipped into his field of view. _Maker's blood…! _An elegant, sweeping flash of gleaming metal ended in a vicious spray of blood. Ser Ryan felt the skin on his neck and cheek pelted with damp and then a chilling, empty silence.

Time abandoned him. Limbs weighed down with uncertainty and thoughts moving through treacle, Ryan forced himself to _move_. As he rose, despair and dread coalesced into one, overwhelming moment of horror. Somehow, in the chaos and confusion, Alyce had managed to interpose herself between the Warden and his father when Howe's blade had struck.

Despite Greagoir's terrified howling and the panicked screams of his mother and sister, Ryan was aware of little else but the steady and rapid drip of blood onto tile. His vision failed him again; blurring in rage. The only thing preventing him from throwing himself forward and curling his hands around the Warden's neck was the child in his arms, keening and clutching in distress at his hair.

"_No_…" It might have been his voice…or someone else's, Ryan wasn't sure of that either and then…

"You…_ass…_" _Her _voice, distant and faint, but nevertheless very, very angry.

Ser Ryan missed seeing Alyce's hand ball up into a fist. He didn't catch her arm swinging either, but he did hear Nathaniel Howe's cry of surprise and the sickening crunch of breaking bone before the Warden crumpled onto the floor...His fall revealed Alyce standing over both Grey Wardens, slightly hunched and glowing bright as the sun…her clothes soaked crimson from shoulder to waist.

She was shaking.

"Alyce…" Ser Ryan called, sense and feeling returning in listless instalments.

Her eyes flashed in his general direction, barely acknowledging his presence. "_This,_" she jabbed a thumb at herself aggressively. "This is a _House of Herren _exclusive! A limited edition, _Blight-themed original_!" she screeched at them all. "And it's _new_, you _savages_!"

Skin pale as a cloud, Alyce's head drooped. The light of her anger abruptly snuffed, she collapsed, sucking them all into lightless gloom.

-oo-

"I ain't happy, that's a certainty, Serenna…"

The elf looked up from the tray, sliding the last tea cup and saucer from it and clutching it to her breast.

Mildred Amell's silverite-tipped cane gouged the wood as it struck the floor. "I ain't happy!" she raised her voice to just below that of a bellow, just in case no one had heard her the first time.

Levelling the cane at the three seated on the upholstered bench across from her, she pointed to each as she spoke; the three flinching as the end of the cane came perilously close to impaling them.

"The last time I looked, I wasn't running a bloody _coach house_!" Mildred continued to growl. "Nor a fighting pit!" she added; the cane striking the floor with each word. "Mayhem, murder and monkey trouble! It's disrespectful, that's what it is! And I _ain't_ happy about my tiled floors needing to be re-cemented again!"

"M-Mistress Amell…" Warden Alistair was the first to speak; in an attempt at diplomacy or apology or perhaps both, Serenna wasn't too sure. Clearly, she thought, disappointed, his years dealing with the nobles and hangers-on at court hadn't taught him when _not _to wade into verbal battle. He found the cane cracking across his knees for the effort. He jumped, thankful for the protection of his armour; knee caps ringing beneath metal and leather…and decided to remain silent after all.

"You!" Mildred snapped, glowering at him. "Glad you ain't my bloody king any more!" She pointed the cane at the next person. "And _you…_Just so you know, young man, _Howes_ aren't particularly _welcome _in this place." The cane ended at the far end; the recipient shrinking wisely into the cushions at her back. "As for you…you…backstabbing, disloyal, manipulative _strumpet_; I simply have no words!"

Mildred Amell turned to the elf standing next to her. "Serve the tea, Serenna!" she barked authoritatively. "It's about bloody time someone showed these _Grey Wardens _some proper manners!"

Ducking her head obediently, Serenna tucked the tray behind her back and picked up the rose print-tea pot…

-oo-

"_Heyy!"_

The sharp slapping noise brought Ser Ryan's head up. He half rose from the chair, Greagoir making an impulsive grab for his shirt collar at the sudden movement.

"Will you…" An annoyed hand wave…It was a good sign, right? "Will you _stop _fussing, I'm…"

"How am I supposed to fix this if you keep squirming, Alyce?" Dagna demanded testily, needing to _sit _on her mentor to stop her from rising from the bed.

"I don't need a poultice, Dagna," Ser Ryan heard Alyce snap back. "I need to _kill_ that…oww!"

"Well you can't!" Dagna scolded, pushing Alyce back into the pillow with the third – and last – poultice. "It's _illegal_!"

"That hurts!" Alyce complained. "Didn't Petra teach you _any_thing about proper patient handling?"

"Shut up and let me heal you!" Dagna scolded again.

"Ryyyyyyyyyaaaaann…!"

Smothering laughter too relieved for humour, Ser Ryan left the arm chair to stand obediently by the bed; the pile of bloodied clothing and bandages still too distressing to look at even now. He forced his gaze away from the basin to Alyce's too-pale face. He bent, touching her hair.

"_Cariad…_" he murmured softly; pleading.

"Urgh!" She settled back down, keeping a wary, bloodshot eye on the needle-brandishing dwarf sitting astride her. "Well and your bedside manner needs some careful attention – watch that bloody needle, dwarf! – I don't trust you!"

"I've turned many a sow's ear into a silk purse," Dagna growled, leaning forward. "And if you bust these stitches, I am _not _going to stick your innards back inside!"

Alyce scowled. "Right," she grumbled. "Just…no funny embroidery alright? The last time you stitched me up, it left a funny scar!"

"I rather liked the nug," Dagna shrugged. "My finest work was on that sliced hand of yours."

"Nug?" Alyce threw a panicked look towards Ser Ryan. "I thought it was a chicken – ow!"

"It was a _nug,_" Dagna corrected her with a jab of the needle. "A perfectly rendered, _accurate_ and incredibly artistic depiction of…never mind. Just stay still. Otherwise this _fleur de lys_ isn't going to come out right…"

"Daaaaaaagggnaaaaaaaa…!"

"Done!"

Bandages were applied with more speed and skill than Alyce was willing to admit, though to be honest she was too weak, tired and annoyed to actively comment. Leaping blithely from the bed, Dagna shot her mentor a warning glare not to move before moving herself to the washstand and the array of bottles and packets she had arranged there on her arrival. Her hands worked quickly, glass clinked purposefully and the scent of crushed herbs filled the air.

Ser Ryan perched himself tentatively on the edge of the bed. For the first time this morning since he had latched on to his step-father, Greagoir unhitched his hold and crawled to Alyce's side, wrapping his arms around one of hers and staring with deep concentration into her left ear. Ryan leant forward, brushing the hair from the boy's forehead; a reassuring gesture. No child should have had to witness what he had this morning…Ser Ryan's eyes were drawn to the dark speckles on Greagoir's clothing. In the confusion following the morning's events, he hadn't even noticed the blood on Greagoir til now…

Not that Greagoir would have drawn his attention to the fact. Their adopted son had once again, ceased speaking to anyone.

"You have that face."

Ser Ryan's eyebrow rose. "What face would that be?" he asked her.

"Crypt-keeper's face," Alyce told him, rubbing her cheek into the top of Greagoir's head while she spoke.

"Can you blame him?" Dagna returned; a tumbler of something nondescript brown in her hand. She handed it to Alyce with her Petra-face, though she did add somewhat apologetically; "It has lyrium in it, I'm afraid."

As the only practical way of dealing with Petra-face was complete and utter capitulation, Alyce accepted the tumbler with extreme obedience and a cheerful smile of gratitude. She downed the contents however in a single, unhappy gulp; her attempt to suppress the inevitable gagging and retching almost failing her.

"Is that going to put me to sleep?" she asked, holding the tumbler towards her apprentice.

Dagna shook her head. "In your condition…" A quick, wary glance was shared with Ser Ryan as she spoke. "It's probably a good idea to try and keep you awake.

"How are the others?" Alyce asked, swallowing convulsively against another insistent rise of bile.

Dagna shrugged; the tumbler shaking in her hand. She didn't care much about the 'others'. _The 'others' can go to darkspawn for all I care_, she thought…then burst into tears.

Alyce sighed. Throwing her free arm around her apprentice, she stroked the dwarf's back as she wept. Ser Ryan quietly retrieved the tumbler from the bed and placed it on the washstand, along with Dagna's other potion-making bits and pieces. When he returned, Dagna was wiping her tears with a sleeve pulled up over the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry," Dagna apologised damply. "But please don't do that ever again."

"Yes ma'am," Alyce murmured obediently, eyes cast downwards.

A fierce sniff and a final swipe later, Dagna straightened, her Petra-face fixed once more in place. Only the hint of a wobble lingered in her bottom lip while she gave Alyce a last, critical assessment. Satisfied with her handiwork and Alyce's cautious smile, Dagna gave a single, approving nod before turning away, heading for the door.

She paused, her hand on the door jamb. "I'll be back later to check on you," she promised them both. "Hopefully the lyrium would have kicked in by then."

Alyce wiggled her fingers at her, adding another thank you. The door closed, leaving the three of them in relative silence.

After a while Alyce poked Ryan in the leg. "Crypt-keeper face," she told him quietly. "And it's not that bad. Really," she added in as reassuring a voice as she could manage. "As soon as my magic returns, I'll fix myself up."

Ser Ryan levelled a stern look at his wife. "Don't make me yell at you, Alyce."

She touched his face, trying to smooth the crinkles of worry at the corners of his eyes, to no avail. She thought of telling him _now you know how I felt…_but thought better of it, sighing instead at him. Dagna's lyrium-laced potion was beginning to take effect, her head buzzing and dizzy still from blood loss. Touching her forehead to his, with Greagoir curled up like a cat at her side, she was finding it difficult _not _using magic. It would be so easy now to try and reach into the Fade, claw apart the nearest demon and repair herself; fix everything, but she knew that she was not strong enough to do that.

It was more likely that a demon find _her _for a feed and for the first…time? - even compared to the horrible awakening in the locked tool shed so long ago; regaining consciousness to find herself surrounded by anti-magic wards - not having magic _now_ felt…weird.

_These Tremaynes are pretty darned strong with natural Templar skills…_she thought with an inner sigh because a real one felt like too much effort now. Ser Gavin might be elderly and lyrium-damaged, but his abilities to Smite and Drain had lost none of their potency.

"I'm sorry, Alyce…" Ryan began, as though – once more – reading her thoughts. She head-butted him. Gently of course.

"Your father acted out of instinct," she told him, recalling how Ryan's father had hit Neria with that Holy Smite and drained _both _of them at the same time completely of mana. As a consequence, Neria had been unable to do anything about Alyce's injury. _Being unconscious does that to a person, unsurprisingly. _Fortunately, the Warden Alistair had been quick to act. If he hadn't been – and the last of her Rock Armour spell lingered – things might have turned out less _conveniently _for Alyce Amell.

"You don't need to apologise," she reassured him. As far as _she _was concerned, she was grateful to Ser Gavin for knocking out Neria. It was a pity he hadn't arrived to neutralise the Warden Commander sooner. _Ganging up on us like that_…The thought sparked her anger anew. "And I do intend to thank him at some point."

"Then I am sorry I could do nothing," Ryan said, determined on his trip to Guilt World.

Alyce snorted derisively, her arms falling to her sides. "What?" she demanded, though weakly. Fighting Dagna's ministrations seemed to have taken more out of her than she realised. Any energy she had had left was leaving her completely now, but she was just as determined to make her point with him.

"For making sure Greagoir was safely out of the way and no one else got hurt?" she asked. She shook her head. Falling forward she was barely aware of her nose being squashed uncomfortably against his collar bone. He smelled…of lye soap and rosemary. It made her feel hungry, recalling that she hadn't had breakfast. What was the time anyway? Past lunch? Nearly afternoon tea? Alyce inhaled, filling her lungs with his scent. It would have to do, for now.

"_Nug for brains_…" she murmured affectionately, trying to look up at him, but unable to tell from the underside of his chin whether her brief fishing for his smile worked. This unrelenting grim expression of was giving her the heebie-jeebies and quite frankly, she wouldn't put it past him to waylay Warden Howe under cover of darkness and…

"Warden Howe is safe from me," he told her softly, adding in a darker tone; "For now." From her cocoon of warmth; with his arms wrapped lightly around her and his heart beating comfortably beneath her cheek; Alyce grimaced. The tone of his voice implied quite clearly that the next time Ryan met the Warden and he wasn't carrying a vulnerable child, of the belief that the woman he loved had just been slain, or concerned for an elderly parent, things might be different.

_A kiss to distract him…?_ she wondered, thinking even _that_ seemed something for later, when she was feeling less boneless and more alert. Despite the lyrium now coursing through her system, making her skin feel…uncomfortably fizzy, there was something still not right. Her gaze fell on Greagoir; her vision flickering and distorting. The effect of Dagna's potion? Or something else? Whatever it was, she could feel her hold on reality begin to slip.

"Ryan…" she wasn't sure whether he'd heard her call. Husband or no, he would do his duty if something claimed her from the Fade while she was in this weakened state.

_Wouldn't he?_

_Ah bugger it…_She tipped forward sharply, falling and spinning end over end, directionless, weightless. The bedroom shimmered and faded, draining of colour completely to a no-nothing state that felt here and _everywhere _at the same time. Ser Ryan, Greagoir, the window and the walls of the room were gone unsurprisingly; the familiar and yet unfamiliar Fade landscape taking their places. The bed and other furniture from the room shifted; as though trying to decide whether they existed too. Alyce sat up, running a hand through her hair, feeling more solid in the Fade than she had in the real world.

She slipped from the bed, bare feet touching grit; cold and rough. Taking a deep breath didn't…hurt. She looked down, not particularly concerned to see no gash, no paint daub of red to prove her wound had ever existed. Not even a bandage running from shoulder to waist like a winner's sash for a pig-raising competition or…

_Alyce…_

The voice was soft, enquiring. The hint of a smile and the scratch of a nib across new parchment lingered after he spoke. Alyce turned, cocking her head at the man bent over the escritoire; round shouldered and serious of eye. He stood, chestnut eyebrows thick as caterpillars rising enquiringly.

_What are you doing here?_ he asked.

"Um…" Alyce stared. _This is the Fade, _she reminded herself. Things that weren't meant to be; things that shouldn't exist, happened_ here_.

Brown eyes stared back at her, slightly amused. There was the same unruly brown hair; the perpetually ink-stained hands and rumpled robes of Enchanter's yellow-brown. It was…_typical _that his Fade appearance looked exactly like the real-world version.

"What are you doing here?" Alyce found her voice. Obviously, that was not the smartest question she could have started out with. By the expression on his face, he clearly concurred.

"Hey," she asked, because it was a question that needed to be asked, given their current surroundings. "You…wouldn't be a demon, would you?"

His eyebrows rose a fraction higher.

_Can you not tell, Alyce?_

_Nope…_"I think I might have called in sick for that particular class…" she replied, falling back into the tease and banter conversational style of their old days together. He laughed, shaking his head. _He is a demon…_Alyce sighed mentally. _He never laughed this much or this easily…A demon would try to lull her into a false sense of security…Damn it._

_You can't stay here…_he told her. _You know as well as I do, what happens to our bodies when we stay too long in the Fade…_

Alyce stepped forward, closer. She didn't want him to be a demon. She wanted him to be _real_. "But I have too many questions for you!" she argued.

_I am only a figment of your imagination, Alyce,_ he said sorrowfully. _I am sorry. I can stay here no more than you can._

"Bollocks!" Alyce shouted. "Tell me why Flemeth haunts me!" she demanded. "I want to know what it means! Tell me why I've ended up being guardian to a god child! Why me?" _Why did you have to die, damn it!_

He shook his head at her again. _Do you not know Alyce…_he began. _Why…? _

"No, I don't! Otherwise I wouldn't be asking _you, _would I?" she snapped. She felt then the _tug, _like a hook in her spine, dragging her backwards.

_Alyce…_he sighed. _Why do you hate mages…and magic?_

"What kind of a stupid…?" she began when the pull became more insistent, more aggressive. The Fade Realm blurred in her mind and his outline became indistinct. "Tell me!" she yelled. She could see his mouth open; his lips move, but could no longer hear his voice in her head. No longer the comforting absence of feeling; the sense of touch, smell and hearing assaulted her. Her skin felt ripped raw, her ears roared with sound; the sudden colour of the real world overwhelmingly, painfully bright. Her throat burned until she realised it was because she was screaming, cursing. Words that she thought she never knew peppered the air around her head, the one word in between repeated over and over…

"_NIALL…!"_

-oo-


	69. Family

-oo-

**Chapter 69 – Family**

"Niall huh…? Old…um…_acquaintance_ of yours?"

Alyce blinked gritty eyes, reality; walls, ceiling, furniture…all slotting into place as though some large and unseen hand were dropping them from above into the room. Colour and sensation intruded garishly, along with the voice that spoke. Forehead wrinkling, Alyce swung her head into the direction the voice had come.

It wasn't Ser Ryan.

_What is _he _doing…still here…?_

The speaker waggled his fingers at her in what would have been a friendly way, if she wasn't in such a bad and out-of-body-out-of-sorts mood. He wore a set of sombre, dull-coloured leaf mail, the double-rearing Griffons of his Order worn and faded but still recognisable on the breast plate. If he'd been accepted back into the Grey Warden fold, he'd been given the oldest, used and most unwanted set of armour they had. It was quite a difference from the ornate, showy set of silverite that the Commander of the Grey wore, or the purposely understated, yet clearly expensive set of well-cured stamped black leather of her Second in Command.

She hadn't missed the sword lying conspicuously across his lap.

"Vain as it sounds," he sighed. "I didn't think I was _that_ ugly."

Alyce ignored him, holding up her hands and turning them over and around, checking their shape and counting the number of fingers to make sure they fit the description of 'hand' as she remembered it.

"I mean," he continued to talk, "I may not be as young as I used to be, but…in the right light, I'm almost devastatingly handsome…Oh uh, I should also let you know that the dwarf told me I wasn't to give you any more lyrium by the way," he added, shrinking back a little as Alyce swung her legs out from under the covers, her expression dark. "I understand unhappy…things…happen?" Or may happen anyway, he thought, if he was reading her face right.

Alyce stared, taking in the wary set of his jaw and his hand, draped far too casually across the hilt of the sword. Following her gaze, he slowly and deliberately moved his hand away, his eyes never leaving hers. "I suppose you're wondering…"

"Where are the others?" she asked, pushing herself off the bed, swaying slightly once she was on her feet.

"Oh uh, you mean Neria and…"

"_You're_ still here," she accused, a long slender finger jabbing a fingernail short of the end of his nose. "Why?"

He sighed again. Squaring his shoulders, he diligently lifted the sword from his lap and leant it against her bedside table. "Templar duty," he stated first. "Your...Ser...Captain Tremayne did most of the Mage-Watch and quite frankly, the man was exhausted. As for the rest well, _that_," he paused, "is a little more complicated."

He watched her collide with the trunk at the end of the bed, bouncing off onto the bedpost and stumbling across the rug towards the wash stand. The thought of helping her did occur, but self-preservation prevented him from acting on the idea. Instead, he filled the empty spaces with more conversation.

"Look," he began, "for the record, Neria is not happy with me being here."

She gave him a look that told him she agreed with that assessment, adding resentment to the mix. Warden Alistair did not have to see what she was doing. The clumsy clatter of ceramic and the ensuing stream of cursing followed the sound of someone's toe being stubbed very painfully into a table leg. He winced on her behalf, resisting the urge to turn when he heard the screen being wrestled into place, not relishing either thought of a well-aimed ice spell funnelled up his trouser leg or finding himself on the end of the rather grumpy Guard Captain's sword.

"Pass me that flannel will you?" her voice emerged muffled form the other side of the screen.

Alistair looked about the room, spotted the mentioned flannel and passed it to the mage, keeping his eyes well-averted and his distance appropriately far.

"Angry at you how?" she asked as the screen wobbled in a worrying way.

Turning his back on the screen and the mage beyond it, Warden Alistair looked down at his hands - they were bare; his iron-reinforced gloves had been left on the bedside table – counting the spider web of scars across his skin; running over each other and interconnecting; a visual record of his life to date.

"I don't know how much Neria told you about the…deal," he began to explain, "but after the…_ritual_ was performed neither of us - or I should say _I - _was not to follow or try to find Morrigan. Or the child."

A pale blonde head appeared above the top of the screen. Alyce pushed fabric and wood aside, this time avoiding very carefully the hinges so her fingers wouldn't get caught in them again. She stepped up to the Warden's side. He turned, looking surprised at her garb; usually a workman's outfit, she wore loose, rough-spun trousers cut high above her calves with a belted tunic of a pale but sturdy material, made slightly feminine by embroidery around the neck and sleeve cuffs. Her straw-coloured hair had been pulled back into a short braid at her neck. Several long tendrils had been missed, hanging around her cheekbones. These she had tucked behind her ears, rather than re-do the braid.

She had not stopped glaring at him, struggling into a pair of tall boots and threatening to lose her balance once again.

"So…" her glare turned several degrees darker. "Neria and her bow-wielding shadow were here because _you_ were?"

He nodded. There was no point in trying to lie. "Look," he began apologetically when she interrupted him again.

"Why?" she demanded. "What were you hoping to achieve? What did you think you'd find?"

He knew exactly to what – or whom – she referred. _The God Child…_He did not speak for a long moment, staring at the space over her shoulder while extra lines appeared between his eyes. His head dropped back to his hands. "Just in case you hadn't heard," he told her quietly, "I'm a bastard." His head whipped up abruptly as he waved his hands in hasty reassurance. "Not that I'm fishing for sympathy or anything. I was luckier than most. I had a roof over my head, regular meals and when the time came, training and education towards a worthy occupation." He rubbed at his temples; a small indication of how he still felt about his past life.

"Look, I might not have had much of a say in the circumstances of my birth or upbringing, but the thought of…_knowingly_ forcing that kind of life on someone else; another child…and into a life even more uncertain than mine…How could I do that? Neria knew how I felt and still she asked me…And I still did it."

His helpless shrug was accompanied by a brief exhalation of unhappiness, fortified with a large dose of anger at himself.

"I would have given up my life," he told her with firm conviction. "I didn't have much of one to begin with and the Maker knew I didn't want to be king. Dying as a Grey Warden…dying for Ferelden…As my first, last and _only_ duty as King, I would have _done_ it."

"But you didn't," Alyce reminded him, wondering now whether it was more than a will to live that had driven Neria to make such a pact with this Morrigan. _Something worth preserving. _Could a Grey Warden feel _sympathy _for an Old God, enslaved by Darkspawn into leading them? So…"Why?" she asked.

He shrugged again. "Because part of me wanted…I don't know…family? Children? The kind of life a Grey Warden doesn't have. The kind of life I didn't have – and don't tell me I could have gotten married to some noblewoman and had loads of Theirins either. The fact is, by the time I formally took the throne I'd been a Grey Warden for two years. Arl Eamon might have been keen to have me leg-shackled as soon as possible, but Weisshaupt was quite clear on what the Taint does to an unborn child, never mind how difficult it would have been to father one in the first place.

"I knew the ritual worked," he continued. "And despite what I'd promised, I still needed to _know…_" Another shrug. "Long and short of it, at great personal expense I had an agent track Morrigan down. He made it as far as the Dragonbone Wastes, maybe a year or so after the child should have been born and there she simply…vanished."

Alyce frowned. "Vanished? How? She went into hiding again?"

He shook his head. "I had another agent follow the first. One that didn't know Neria personally. Morrigan wasn't the only one that went to the Dragonbone Wastes. Neria was there too. Both went in…and only one of them came out…"

Warden Alistair paused to allow this information sink in; and sink it did. Folding her arms across her chest made Alyce wince and she adjusted her hold slightly, lessening the pressure on the bandages beneath. Her jaw remained stubbornly set, refusing to believe what his words might imply. Neria wasn't that ruthless. _Was she? She had no reason…or did she?_ Giving her head a brief shake in an attempt to derail the direction her thoughts were taking, Alyce shot him one last, resentful stare before making her way to the bedroom door and yanking it open.

"Don't even _think _about saying it, Warden!" she hurled at him and stepped outside.

Having no other choice but to follow, Alistair found trying to keep up with the long-legged mage something of a challenge.

"Look, I'm not implying that Neria did something…untoward. I'm just stating facts." He said rather breathlessly, concentrating on navigating the stairs at such a rapid pace while maintaining coherent conversation at the same time.

"So…state the facts!" she told him. The two of them had reached the doors to the kitchens. Alyce paused, catching her own breath. She found him waving his hands vaguely in the air.

"That's all," he told her. "Soon after that the Go – _you _acquired a child matching the right age for the Go…"

"Greagoir," Alyce snapped, tapping her foot.

"What?"

"He has a name," she told him, the rate of her foot-tapping increasing. "It's _Greagoir._"

"What?" he said again, blinking. "Like the Knight Commander of the Ferelden Order of Templars?"

Alyce refused to meet his gaze. She turned instead into the kitchen, kicking the doors open and yelping in pain when she stubbed the toe on her other foot. Hobbling past the heavy oak tables and bottom-worn benches, she eventually ended up at the far set of doors; the ones that led to the kitchen gardens. She opened these with her elbows this time, stumbling onto the pavement outside when her odd, pained gait made her trip on the top step.

Warden Alistair's arms shot out to steady her. She twisted out of his grip, her back colliding with a verandah post. The top of her head struck a hanging basket, showering them both with soil and dried Thyme leaves. The sound of childish laughter carried towards them from some, distant part of the garden. Alyce craned her neck to locate its source, with no success. Leaning against the post, she sighed, shaking leaves and dirt from her hair.

"So…the real question is," she said, brushing the tops of her shoulders, "What do you intend to do?"

He took a step forward, contemplating his knees and surprisingly, finding no answers there.

"I…don't know," he told her with a rueful grimace. "I don't know what I wanted. To see him? See whether he was anything like me. Whether he was alright…" Another of his pointless shrugs. "The fact of the matter is; the life of a Grey Warden isn't exactly compatible with child rearing. Our lives are short. Those who manage to live through a Blight have shorter lives still…never mind the constant danger we put ourselves in. And…"

A cluster of giggling, dusty children exploded through the gap in the far hedge, closely followed by Dagna, clearly struggling to keep up. Then as before, everything seemed to happen at once in a weirdly coincidental sequence of events that could only be attributed to some higher, cosmic being who was having an equally bad day or had a twisted sense of humour.

Aunt Mildred and Serenna appeared, almost by magic; the elderly lady aggressively pointing out pertinent objects in her path with her deadly silverite-tipped walking staff.

Closely behind them strolled Asla and Gavin Tremayne; the old ex-Templar's bright head of snowy hair conspicuous amongst the green of the garden. The two settled out of the sun onto a shady bench under the big oak. Asla produced a pair of needles and a half-knitted sock while Ser Gavin rested his head onto the trunk, promptly falling asleep. Winding in and around all of them, Dagna, Morwenna's two daughters and Greagoir ran and leapt with contagious laughter, rosy cheeks and seemingly – for the children at least – indefatigable enthusiasm.

The only thing missing from the picture, Alyce thought sourly, was a gambolling puppy with floppy ears and an apron-clad nanny pushing a perambulator casually along the neatly swept gravel paths…

"To be honest," Alistair spoke, his voice startling Alyce out of the idyllic picture in her head, "I'm envious."

"Envious, how?" she asked, dragging her attention away from Greagoir extracting a worm from her Aunt's strawberry patch.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked with a snort. "All of…_this_…" He waved his hands towards the tableau of domestic harmony before them. "A mother, father, sister, nieces…Even an Aunt…If I had a child," he said, "I'd want him to grow up surrounded by people like this; people who loved him, cared for him always. Even if he ended up at the Circle, he'd still have people who gave a damn enough to accept him no matter what; who treasured him enough to always welcome him back…Family," he told her, as though the idea of it was so obvious.

"Family…" Alyce found herself repeating, the discovery of the fact no less enlightening for her than it had been for him.

"Yes," he nodded with a last sigh that was full of hope and longing.

"_Family_."

-oo-

Alyce dropped the latch on the gate, leaning on the top rail with one hand raised in parting until Warden Alistair's head of blonde hair was lost completely from sight. She turned, surveying the neatly trimmed hedges and pristine paths. Everywhere she looked she could see Ryan's influence; from the precisely-shaped topiaries, simple (and not so simple) repairs to stone and woodwork and careful placing of colour for contrast. Her back braced against the gate, she lifted her face to the sun, eyes closed until her skin stung from the heat and her vision flashed red and green behind her eye lids.

A single, long sigh and she pushed herself away from the gate. It was time to tackle the Gardening Genius…

In her pocket was a map to Soldier's Peak, the new headquarters of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, along with the names and numbers of Grey Wardens known there. It was confidential information of course, passed on by a Warden that had been keen to reassure her that as far as he knew, no other Grey Warden in the country had been trained in the Templar arts. Warden Alistair had confessed a _vested _interest…

"_He doesn't look like me…" he commented, the two of them watching Greagoir present a jewelled stink bug to Dagna._

_Alyce glanced at the Warden, arrested by the rueful tone of his voice. "Disappointed?" she couldn't help but ask._

"_Of course…" he added, with a twist of his mouth. "Cailan and I looked so much alike, I thought, hoped maybe…I guess it doesn't matter, seeing as he doesn't exactly look like Morrigan either…"_

"_Well, I don't know what this Morrigan looked like," Alyce admitted, "but perhaps he has the best of both of you somewhere." _

"_If anything," he added, "he looks a lot like your husband."  
_

_She hadn't known what to say to that, except to thank whatever powers existed that of all the features Greagoir had inherited from his birth parents, it had been brown hair and brown eyes, both of such an unremarkable hue that he could be _anyone's _child._

"_I guess that's pretty handy then," she managed, unable to keep the relief from her voice._

Recalling the conversation she had had with Warden Alistair, Alyce could not help conjuring the images of Ryan Tremayne and Greagoir together in her head. In her mind Greagoir did not _really _look like his adoptive father either, but she figured that as long as everyone else believed it, it would simply _be._

Of course, thinking about Ryan, meant that it was inevitable she come across him unexpectedly, even though she had thought he was still resting…

Alyce paused, one foot on the first step of the pond's bridge, completely unprepared to see him…not that she didn't _want _to see him. She really did.

Just not now.

Not before she had prepared an argument or a coherent speech.

Thinking she might back away quietly, she did not count on her traitorous shadow alerting him to her presence. He too paused, throwing a look over his shoulder and doing a double-take of surprise. The pleased grin he bestowed on her caused acute stomach wobble.

"Hello," he said, rising to his feet.

Alyce couldn't help the nervous burble of laughter, thankful there was no accompanying nug snort, for a change.

"Hello," she said, his approach a growing pressure to her ears. She shouldn't be this nervous…surely? _He's my husband dammit! _

"_I guess," Warden Alistair had added in the same, rueful tone of voice, "it was too much to ask to see _something _of me in him…"_

_Alyce had felt a stab of guilt, banishing it immediately because it wasn't as if _that _had been her fault. His sheepish look brought it back however. "And this is the part where you tell me it's just as well because I don't have a right to have anything to do with him. I did after all, abandon him," he told her. "Practically."_

Ser Ryan dusted his hands on his legs. Leaning forward, he kissed her; a mere, unsatisfying brush of his lips against hers that told her he was embarrassed about his dirt, sweat and general dishevelment. But there would be more…later.

"I see you're up and about," he commented.

"So are you." _Maker he looks tired…_There was still the hint of exhaustion around his eyes, a rejuvenation spell rising in her mind. _No, he probably wouldn't appreciate that._ She waggled her fingers at him, indicating her intention. He shook his head. _No? Well…_She looked at the rest of him. Despite the heat, he insisted on wearing a long-sleeved shirt, self-conscious about displaying his scars to anyone but her…and never outside their bedroom. _Maybe a bucket of water…?_

Of course, that would have been mostly for _her _benefit and would negate the concealing properties of his garments…Still, it was a _nice _thought.

"Was that the last of the Grey Wardens I just heard?" he asked, he gaze travelling over the garden towards the gate, even as he led her into the shade of a stand of pines. "To say I was relieved to see the other two leave is an _understatement_."

"Ah…" Alyce murmured, trying to think and _fast._

"_Well…no," she had told the Warden. "Why would I do that?" It would have been cruel and needlessly so. He might have considered himself to have abandoned the God Child, but it hadn't been exactly voluntary._

"_So…" Alistair had begun tentatively, almost fearfully. "If I was to sometimes…visit…Letting you both know in advance of course, so you can tell me 'no' or you know, 'never darken our doors again!' or something to that effect…I mean I wouldn't blame you. Or…anything."_

_Perhaps it was because she wanted him to stop talking because it was making her head hurt, but she had blurted out: "Of course not! Greagoir would want to see his godfather from time to time."_

_Eyes bugging, he had begun to splutter. "Y-y-y…"_

"_You still have to write us first," she told him sternly. There was no taking it back now. "As we may not be home. And you are _not _to come bearing gifts," she added even more firmly. "I won't have Greagoir spoiled rotten. He's to enjoy you for being here, and not for what you're going to bring him."_

"What could they possibly want with Greagoir?" Ryan added, nudging her out her thoughts. "Surely they don't think him a threat to their Order?"

Alyce felt her face grow too warm and it wasn't because of the sun.

"Uh…"

He sat down beside her, leaning his palms on the edge of the stone bench. Throwing her a look beneath the wave of hair that fell across his forehead, he watched her try to conceal her thoughts, and failing utterly. Ryan chuckled to himself. This was too much fun…

"This wouldn't have anything to do with you telling the Grey Warden formerly known as 'Your Majesty' that he is now our son's godfather?" he asked plainly.

Ryan bent his head, hiding his smile. Alyce didn't need to cast rock armour on herself to turn into a statue.

"How did you...?"she stared. The conversation with Warden Alistair had been at the _rear _of the house, not _here_...

Just a few, well placed words at the right time generally worked and Ryan was learning which ones and _when_.

The rest of their lives together may not be the easiest and these last couple of days had taught him more about himself than the rest of his life had. He had never expected _easy. _Never that…nor would he ever describe it as _uninteresting._

Uninteresting or not, he could not imagine living it without her.

He cleared his throat. "You didn't consult me," he said.

"Well I…"

Her brows snapped down and she cast him a look of annoyance. "Is it fair?" she demanded, finally realising what he was doing. "Teasing the recovering mage? I'm very vulnerable right now, I'll have you know."

"'Vulnerable'?" he enquired. "How so? You look hale and hearty to me, Mistress Amell."

"Ouch," she grimaced at the use of that hated title. "You're just not nice, are you? That hurt my feeling and it's the only one I have too. Could be very hard to replace…" Her words were drowned in his laughter. His inability to hold his mirth in check earned him a sharp slap to the arm. "Bloody Templar!" she growled at him.

"I'll remind you I am no longer a Templar," he said calmly, tucking her arm into his side. Despite her thunderous expression, her fingers twined with his.

"Hmph," she snorted, nose in the air. "What, no Holy Smites?"

"Oh I didn't say that," he said quite easily. "Or Mana Drains, Area Cleansing and have I told you I was particularly adept at Mental Fortress?"

Her shoulders slumped, her eyes closed. "Why am I not surprised?" she sighed. "Am I going to be miserable the rest of my life?" she murmured.

Alyce felt his lips on her hair. She opened her eyes to find him smouldering at her. "Not if I have any say in it, _cariad._"

"Well that's…" she began, her mind going completely blank of anything else but the man next to her. "Huh…"

"And I approve of Warden Alistair standing in as Greagoir's godfather," he told her, just to make it clear. Because he'd be _watching _those Grey Wardens. Very carefully.

"Huhh…"

"Though for the rest of our children, might I propose someone _other _than a Grey Warden?" he continued ruthlessly.

"Rest…?" Alyce blinked. _Wait…_"Are you _insane?_" she demanded, her senses returning with force. "Magic runs strong in my family. It'll be bad enough if and when Greagoir shows the _signs_, I don't know that it's a good idea to keep breeding more Amells…Honestly, did you hit your head? Eat a funny whelk?"

"Good Templars run equally strong in mine," he informed her crisply. "Or do you object to being mother to a brood of Templars?"

"Brood?" she choked. _How many is a bloody brood…?_ _I think I need to have a bit of a lie down…_And then she slapped her forehead when he laughed again, joining in because she enjoyed the sound of his laughter too much, especially when it was as hearty and infectious as his.

"You're incorrigible, impossible and improbable!" she accused him.

"I'm also serious."

"Ah, ha, ha, ha…No. You're not."

"Yes. I am."

"No. Really. You're not." Is he? Bloody Fade she was in trouble…"You'll ruin my figure, you realise that?"

"Worth it," he told her with an evil grin. "All part of my dastardly plan to take over the Circle of Magi, install one of my sons as Knight Commander and pull the strings behind the scenes, thus ensuring not only my infamy and fortune, but my iron will on all future Mages of Ferelden."

Alyce's shoulders slumped even more. She no longer had the will to oppose him. It wasn't worth the mockery. "I hate you," she told him in a flat, humourless voice.

His smile was unfazed.

"And I love you," he told her, stomach wobblingly again.

_Why do I hate mages, Niall? Or magic? _Her brain asked, hoping wherever her old mentor was, he could hear.

_Because I don't, you know._

Magic and the Circle had taken her away from her Aunt Mildred and everything she had loved, but magic had brought her back again, given her purpose, a family, friends…and this infuriatingly loveable man.

"Well…?" he asked.

_I think I could live with that…You hear that Niall? Wherever you are? I don't hate magic or mages, ner-ni, ner-ni, ner, ner!…_

_Not all of the time._

"Well what?" Alyce asked. "Oh! Yeah. That. I love you too. I suppose."

"And _I _suppose that is the best I can hope for…" He said on a long and pitiable exhalation heavy with suffering and sorrow.

Alyce smiled, resting her head comfortably onto his shoulder. She wasn't fooled in the least. _Yeah, Templar. I'm onto you now…_

"Maybe," she sighed, content and warm and quite happy with the world, even if his shoulder was a tad bony and he could probably do with putting on a bit more weight.

"Or…maybe not."

-oo-

A/N: I don't know why, but this chapter has been particularly difficult to put together, being completed one and a half times and then being completely re-written with barely any resemblance to the original. This is, sadly, almost the end of _Remembering Aunt Mildred. _Yes, I put this note at the end because it seemed more appropriate here than at the beginning. Apologies for the ambush, but this story - started as a filler while waiting for the second of the Dragon Age games - was always going to have a beginning, a middle and an end. I certainly hadn't expected it to reach sixty-nine chapters but Alyce Amell has been almost as much fun to write as some time-poor Dalish Elves...I also wanted to leave Alyce in a happy place because she's worked almost as hard as her Warden counterpart and earned the fluffy.

So, here we are. Just one more, quick chapter to go...Thanks for sticking with me so far, folks...


	70. Final

-oo-

**Chapter 70 – Final**

_Tick._

She touched the petals of the bouquet to her lips before she set them on the stone. Satisfied with their placement, Alyce then stepped back, pulling the lapels of her coat closer about her shoulders. She'd untied the toggles for easier movement; to clear out the dead grasses and sweep the accumulated dirt so she could give the marble a good scrub in preparation for her bi-annual placing of flowers on her Aunt's monument. As was her custom, she ran her fingers along the engraving; over the words written in standard Fereldan, Elvish and Dwarven:. "_We remember…"_

The stone marking Aunt Mildred's last resting place was an impressive one; a single, perfectly formed slab of blue marble that Dagna had excavated and carved herself. The blue had been chosen specifically because of the white lyrium content. It could be enchanted to resist the elements…just not the dirt. Alyce wished her visits could be more frequent, but her duties at the Tower made it difficult to return to Highever more than twice a year, if she was lucky…First Enchanter Torrin's revenge for not being able to leave the Tower himself (more than likely).

Flexing her cold-stiffened fingers, Alyce wiggled them back into her gloves just as a hand crept over her left shoulder.

"Nice work," the deep voice tickled her earlobe. A cheeky chin rested comfortably there briefly; his breath warming the side of her face.

With a chuckle, she reached over her shoulder. It was easy enough to find the end of his nose, tweaking it hard. The resulting '_owwww!_' was so worth it.

"Have you seen your father?" she asked him, rolling her eyes at the minor healing spell he felt he needed to cast over the end of his nose. She forced her attention from the stone monument. After all this time it was still difficult leaving this place, even if the passing of years made it slightly easier each visit.

The tall, broad-shouldered mage standing cross-eyed before her nodded. "I hope this doesn't scar…" he muttered darkly. "Honestly," he added, "You still treat me like a three year old." His eyes uncrossed to find her tapping her foot, waiting for the answer to her question. Inclining his scruffy head, he told her obediently, "He's doing the same at Grandad's grave."

He added a shrug that was not concerned in the least, "He might be done. I dunno."

Resisting the impulse to sweep a hand over his head; to try and smooth the errant curls and stubbornly wayward tendrils that hung low over his eyes and around his ears, Alyce glared at him; or more specifically, at his tone of voice. Messing up the arrangement she knew he'd spent the better part of this morning teasing and fluffing until the correct messiness had been achieved might not be worth it, she told herself, though how he could tell if a single hair was out of place would always remain a mystery. Messy was messy, but apparently the girls went for that dark, introspective look.

Apparently.

_Mothers shouldn't know this, right?_

A long sigh escaped her. There was movement behind his curly bangs, indicating his eyebrows drawing downwards in an enquiring frown. "What?" he asked.

Alyce cocked her head at him. "When did you get so tall?" She asked the first question that popped into her head.

Tipping his head backwards, he attempted to look down his nose at her, cursing the powers that be that gave him not one but two parents that equalled him in height. "That's a rhetorical question right?" he asked, slightly worried. "I don't need to answer that?"

"Why? Don't you have an answer already prepared?" she teased, giving his arm a poke and eliciting another 'oww!' "I may not be your lecturer anymore, but that doesn't mean you don't stop learning."

"And thank the Maker for small mercies," he retorted. "I'm pretty sure my entire life has been ruined by my _parent _being one of my teachers." Belying his words, he threw an arm about her shoulders and drew her close enough to ruffle _her _hair. Clearly, he didn't much care about imposing follicle disorder on anyone else.

_Tick._

In this way, the two of them began down the path to the main part of the cemetery, picking their way carefully over the rain-slick stones.

"Anyway…" Greagoir added before she could speak, "Father had…_company_."

Alyce pressed her lips together hastily, biting off laughter that threatened to escape. She had an inkling what kind of 'company' he meant. She thought she had caught a glimpse of shiny armour and a purple tunic earlier. Greagoir had also – at first – expressed a wish to stand with his father while Ser Ryan attended to his own father's grave stone, but had changed his mind rather quickly.

The end of Greagoir's nose wrinkled and he glared at her. "What?" he demanded again.

Alyce shook her head. "Ooh!" she exclaimed, the stiffening of his arm around her shoulders all the confirmation she needed. "There they are!" she added, in a bright cheerful voice. "And doesn't Myf look _splendid_?"

Greagoir's glare intensified. "Yeah. Whatever," he muttered, stuffing his hands deeply into the pockets of his robe and refusing to look at the couple placed nearby. As this _was _the resting place of the dead, Alyce did make an effort not to laugh, but it was a difficult thing.

_Tick._

"I refuse to call her _Ser _Myfanwy," Greagoir growled, scowling at the ground resentfully. "Stupidest thing _ever…_"

The Templar standing respectfully to the side of the grave stone smiled. Alyce thought she saw the barest glance towards her companion and a slight pursing of the young woman's lips, but she had to give Myfanwy her due. The young Templar-in-Training kept her composure remarkably well, even suffering an affectionate hug from her uncle's wife.

Standing back to survey Myfanwy's appearance, Alyce gave in to her previous impulse to fuss, straightening the collar of Myf's tunic and brushing stray raindrops from the tall pauldrons that threatened to swallow the young woman whole. Myf had not grown as tall as her older sister, remaining at least half a head shorter than her aunt, but she had been no less determined to wear the shield of Andraste as her grandfather and uncles had. Her mother and grandmother had not been happy with her decision, but Myfanwy had argued that not only did the blood of devotion run in her veins, but someone had to keep an eye on the _Mages_ in her family, especially following Uncle Ryan's retirement from the Order.

_Tick._

"Aw, Aunt 'Lice…" Myf sighed.

"Don't make me take out my handkerchief and spit on it, young woman," Alyce warned her with a smile. "Because I will." Alyce stook back a little. "Something's missing."

"No sash," Greagoir said behind her, rolling his eyes. "She hasn't taken her vows yet, remember?"

Myf poked her tongue out at the young man. "It's about time _you_ came down that mountain," she grumbled at him. "What; were you dancing around toadstools in the nuddy or something? Plotting your escape from the Circle?"

"Ur hur," Greagoir returned the gesture, as if both of them weren't too old for that sort of thing anymore. "And if I was in the nuddy, _you_ would be the last to get a look in!"

"Shh! The both of you…" Alyce pressed a finger to her lips, indicating with a tilt of her head, the still-kneeling figure nearby.

Taking the initiative, Myfanwy advanced on the young mage, wrapping both arms firmly around one of his and dragging him towards the gate. Alyce caught Greagoir's helpless look before he was yanked forward inexorably. She wiggled her fingers at him; knowing full well that Greagoir was the stronger of the pair – Templar training aside – he had been taught to use sword and shield from a young age and could have easily overpowered the smaller, weight-bearing Templar…but didn't.

The young couple removed, Alyce turned her attention to the figure at the grave stone, enjoying the way the silver-brown strands of hair ruffled in the autumn breeze.

_Tick._

Alyce leant her back against a plinth, drinking in the sight of his profile until her heart was full to bursting. There might be more salt than pepper in his hair these days and it was far shorter than when he had been in service, but she found little else had changed over the years in how much she enjoyed simply looking at him. Even when the tip of his nose was as red with the cold as it was right now.

After a moment's more, his eyes opened and he stood. He bowed; arms crossing over his chest in the salute of The Order. Then as she had done, he backed away slowly, reverentially.

Releasing his arms he turned to her, eyebrows rising at her expression.

"I hope the thoughts you are currently entertaining are appropriate to this environment," he advised her sternly.

Alyce's grin widened. "Not in the least," she told him, moving forward and tucking comfortably into his side. "In fact," she continued. "They're about as inappropriate as I can possibly manage."

"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "Should I be walking so close? In case divine lightning strikes from the sky?"

Alyce chuckled. "This close to my aunt's grave? Not likely." Her eyes twinkled at him. "And," she reminded him with an impish wiggle of her eyebrows, "I don't recall you caring about divine retribution around the _Warden's_ Shrine…"

"That was…different," he said with a self-righteous clearing of his throat, adding with a chuckle, "and a long time ago."

"Are you saying we're overdue?" she asked. She jerked her head back the way she had come. "Warden's Shrine is that way…It's not far…"

"It's…" He looked down into her face, the rest of his smile coaxed to fullness by the mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Greagoir is waiting is he not? And Myfanwy? They will wonder where we are…"

Alyce rolled her eyes at him. "Do I look like I care?"

"Allow me to remind you then: First Enchanter's _office_…"

This time, she blew a raspberry. "Oh look," she said with a pout. "We _did _clean up afterwards and we only broke one trophy. Who was to know Torrin was due to entertain a delegation from Cumberland that day? There were plenty of other offices he could have used…"

_Tick._

"_His_ office, Alyce?" he raised his eyebrows at her.

"You're no fun."

"Andraste's smoking potatoes, the two of you aren't discussing gross old people things again are you?" Greagoir's voice called out. "Only could you hurry it up? The two of us are freezing our 'nads off out here!"

"Speak for yourself!" Myf elbowed him violently in the side, while blushing furiously.

_Tick._

Alyce laughed. She turned to Ser Ryan but there was only empty space in an orange wavescape that stretched infinitely on all sides. All sound vanished except the soft, dark whisper of mages drawing magic from this place and the hungry buzz of other creatures lurking just out of sight, at the fringes and seams of awareness. She felt something brush her cheek, catching a glimpse of coppery brown. The air shifted and shimmered around the vague shape of a bird; some kind of hawk or eagle, perhaps even an owl. Alyce was not sure. One moment it was there, standing almost as tall as she, the next it was a slender, white-haired woman with pale unblemished skin and eyes of polished amber.

The woman smiled a smile that did not contain humour, but mockery that Alyce knew so well from this particular image.

"You've been following me," the woman spoke; the words entering Alyce's brain directly without the mouth moving. Only the smile; unchanging and perpetual.

"Curiosity?" the woman asked. "Or is your intent something else?"

Alyce tried to speak, but found she could not, the woman striding forward to circle her endlessly.

"Is it concern I see? Surely not. You do not fear me. That is not your way."

Alyce was beginning to feel dizzy, trying to track the woman's movements. Closing her eyes, she could sense the ripples of air the old witch made around her. She still felt giddy. "All is not what it seems," the woman continued. "Can one trust one's eye when it lies?" A peal of youthful laughter followed. "When the mind supplies not what we must see, but only what we want to? Your friend had the right of it," the woman had…stopped? No, there was a cool swish of moving air again. "Powerful mages…but I know as well as any that the power of youth does not endure. There is only power. At the end of all things. Who watches the Watchers who watch the Watchers? How will you choose, daughter of Mortals?"

Alyce sighed. "Probably by going eeny, meeny, miny mo…" she muttered and this time when the woman laughed, it was more of the cackle that had been heard in so many of her dreams.

"You think me nonsensical…" the witch cackled some more, "and you would be right. When you have lived as long as I have, you find amusement where and when you can."

And then the witch did stop moving. Standing directly behind, she curled her arms around Alyce's shoulders. Thin arms; feather-light with muscle as taught as bed straps, they closed in on her. Alyce felt the air in her lungs leave, breath by breath.

"I gave her the one I prized above all," she hissed into Alyce's ear, the sound scraping the inside of her skull, leaving the shape of the words etched into bone. "But to the world, I leave this one gift…Do not fail me. Mortal."

_Tick._

"Hullo…sleepy-head…?"

_Tick._

"How long are you going to sit here, slumbering the day away?"

_Tick. _

"Grargh!"

"I'll have you Archdemon! Feel my mighty Warden sword!"

"Grargh…argh! Nooo…! Ohnoohnoohnoohno…"

Alyce woke with a start and a shudder. Ser Ryan was wiping at her face and she blinked, trying to focus. _Had she been drooling again? _She was sitting under the very ancient chestnut in the front of the garden, the sound of the fountain in the background mixing with the laughter and feet running over soft grass. She stared at the writhing figure in front of her.

"Um…" she heard her voice start. "Is there…something wrong with Greagoir?"

Throwing an arm around her shoulders, Ryan sat beside her, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Nothing to be concerned about. He's just dying."

"Wha…?"

"He's the…" He made an embarrassed sound in his throat. Looking over at him Alyce could see him try not to laugh. "…Archdemon."

"Archdemon," Alyce repeated dumbly.

"The children spent the morning learning about the Blight," he explained, "so they decided to play Darkspawn and Grey Wardens. Greagoir decided he'd like to be the…uh, _dragon._"

"Huh." _Haaaaa…_

Stiffening suddenly, Alyce sat bolt upright, slapping at her cheeks. They stung where her palms met skin confirming her hopes that where she was _now, _was actually where she _was._ Just to be on the safe side however, she pinched herself, thankful that that hurt too. Then she looked over at Ryan to find him observing her with a bemused lift of a single eyebrow. It was coming back to her…slowly, even if the dream was still fresh in her mind…She settled back into his side trying to make herself small.

"Bad dream?" he asked.

"Huhh…" she murmured, knowing – hoping – it would be the last of those dreams of Flemeth…

"You were sleeping for a long time," he said, the hint of concern in his deep voice. "I thought for a moment you'd gone Fade-walking again."

Alyce shook her head. A yawn seized her, making the hinges of her jaw pop before she could speak again. "You try staying up until the wee sma' hours of the morning delivering babies and see how well you stay awake during the day," she told him, dropping her head onto his shoulder. She was still tired, but fear that the dream might continue after all kept her awake. Mostly.

"You seem to be gaining quite a reputation for bringing new life into the world," he said, crossing his ankles and looking down on her wrinkling nose. There had been pride in his voice, but Alyce was keen to assure him otherwise.

"Of the four-legged kind," she sniffed. "Four girls and four boys this time," she announced. It had been a…warning? Obviously, not the mabari puppies. _They_ hadn't been a portent of anything except some inexpert, though gleeful dancing by the Cousland's Kennel Master. She had meant the dream, of course. As for the so-called glimpse into her future…she looked up suddenly at Ryan, the top of her head colliding with the side of his jaw. He winced, giving her a _look._

_More pepper than salt…and…_She'd completely lost her train of thought again, enjoying far, far too much being able to look at him for _real _and not at some kind of potential Fade version. _Really, long curly eyelashes are completely wasted on men…_And…

"You know," he told her with the smallest of frowns. "Cannibalism is generally frowned upon in polite Ferelden circles."

"Oh?" she asked, wide-eyed. She hadn't noticed acting on the impulse to lick the side of his face like a mabari, but she did notice attempting to nibble on his jaw. He sighed.

"And there are…the _children,_" he added pointedly.

"I'm so glad you're you…" she told him, the top of her head burrowing once more into his neck. _Don't ever grow old, don't ever die on me. _For that matter she didn't want Greagoir to grow up either and…_Myf_? A Templar? She switched her attention to the two – no three of them because Bonnie was there too, with Dagna and Morwenna keeping two pairs of eyes loosely trained on them – circling each other, pretending to be Griffons now. It was something of a relief that they'd moved on from _Archdemon _and _Grey Warden_ to something a little less…closer to home. If one could call it that.

"Are you?" he asked, still frowning and wondering what she kind of weird dream had caused this odd conversation. When she looked up at him again, he found his breath catching unexpectedly. Her heart shining in the storm grey of her eyes made his insides flutter. It was all the answer he needed, making her affirmative nod somewhat redundant. His life, he thought, could not be better than it was at this moment.

"I…have some news for you by the way," he said, barely able to keep the tremble out of his voice, now that he'd brought it up.

"By the rather nice look on your face," she observed, "it's good news?"

"Almost as good as you turning up for our wedding," he told her delaying the news slightly to give him time to steady his nerves.

"Nothing could be as good as _that,_" she told him. "But go on." Curling her hands into fists, she held them up at breast level. "Try me."

"My brother is alive."

She stared at him. First her eyes slid to the left. Then they slid to the right. Both her eyebrows lifted and then slanted sideways, her mouth screwing up slightly. "Um…Ry-ahn…Honey, muffin, dear, sweetie, lovey, buncha muncha crunchy carrots…Your brother is…how do I say this without hurting your feeling? He's…"

"Very much alive," he told her again, laughing. "It's not Geraint I'm talking about but _Bryant._"

"Um…_Ry_…" she began again.

"I know, I said previously that I'd been given information that he'd been overrun by the Blight," he said quickly, sure that he was grinning like a fool now. "I could scarcely believe it myself. When I received the letter from the Chantry in Gwaren, I thought it was some kind of cruel jest. But he's…" He had to take a breath, stifling happy laughter. "He managed to escape with some folk from Lothering. Somehow made it past the horde to the Brecilian Forest. He was injured badly and it's taken him this long to get back to civilisation. _Maker's breath!_" he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair. "_Years _he's been missing…"

Alyce sat up, her back ramrod straight. "Does your mother know?" she asked.

"_Yes_! When I first told her, like me she could not speak for fully five minutes…and then she started to hit me…and then she started to cry…and she hit me some more…and then Morwenna came to find out what all the fuss was about and then _she_ started hitting me too and then…"

"Alright, alright…I think I'm getting the general picture here," Alyce told him, placing both hands on each of his shoulders and applying a calming pressure. "Everyone was clearly so happy, you got beaten up. That's…" she waggled her head from side to side. "Not so good, actually," she told him. "So…what now?" she asked. "What are you going to do?"

He sat back. Drawing one knee up and clasping hands around it, he stared happily across the garden. He looked stupidly young, for someone with so much grey in his hair. "To be honest, I don't know," he told her with a self-deprecating grimace. "Mother wants to go to Gwaren to meet him and bring him back. He's…not quite recovered yet. Apparently his memory's not the best, but he remembers his family at least. Father can't go obviously and with the Teyrn and his Lordship due to return in the next two weeks, I'm not sure now is a good time to be away…but…" He spread his hands wide. "I really don't care…!" he laughed again. "Knowing he's alive and somewhere is good enough for me now… "

"I'm sure we'll work something out," she told him confidently, because she was sure that he would. He'd taken care of _them _all this time, except…this time – hopefully – he wouldn't need to do anything as drastic as throw away his career and suffer physical punishment to do so. In fact, she knew as she snuggled back into his side, that he was probably coming up with a plan at that very moment.

"Grargh!"

Greagoir dashed across their collective field of view. Beside her, a sudden bubble of glee escaped her husband; a strange but rather appealing sound. That little boy again, coming out to play.

"Grargh! I eat you and all your Giffons!"

Alyce sighed. Greagoir was the Archdemon again. _Oh dear…_Barely a moment later, Ser Ryan had leapt to his feet with an almighty roar of his own.

"No, I am the Archdemon!" he announced, to delighted squeals of terror. On the stone bench nearby, two jaws dropped, their gazes following the usually quiet-spoken, serious soldier in united disbelief. Alyce chuckled, slapping the grass at their expressions. The only time she stopped was to sweep her legs out of the way as the chase between Archdemon and Grey Wardens came too close to tripping over them.

Greagoir tore towards her. "Argh! Mama, save me!"

From the protective circle of her arms he produced an invisible sword, stabbing towards Ryan as he approached. Alyce snickered as he fell back, casting rock armour on him a second before Myfanwy and Bonnie jumped on him. Breaking free, Greagoir joined in the victory demolition.

"Take no pissners!" he yelled, launching himself at his father.

_Is this the plan you had for him, Flemeth? A gift for the world, huh? _The dream hadn't mentioned anything about Ryan's lost brother. Only death and the passing of time.

_We shall see…_Even immortals could get it wrong…not that she was an expert in that sort of thing. As for being a gift. This _life _was a gift. This place, this garden, those children and that house with her crotchety old Aunt in it cheating at strip backgammon with her in-laws and that man over there getting soundly thrashed by three small ticklish people. Never mind what she had been born with. Or what she could draw from the Fade. This…_this _was true magic.

And _that_, she could live with. And take with her, wherever she went. And however the years passed and tried to dim these moments. She would cherish this life…and remember. Always.

-o END o-

A/N: And that folks (or this) is the end of a story I've enjoyed writing so much. Thank you to the so many people that have followed me from when this was a mere time-passer to its very end. Your comments and encouragement have made this journey through a Mage's life so much more fun. So in no particular order…_Nightsfury, Scarletstar20, therubirose, Gaspode, Eucharion, Donroth, Kwintessa, Deliciously-Demonic, biscuitbrained, Gamine (I know you're still out there!), Artemis7337, Arcplayer, Commander Kurt, Gaspode5, Graffitti My Soul, Allie, bergamot29, ElusiveCloth, Psyche Sinclair, Just Another Fan, Lyrium Flower, lithigia, Mille Libri, Bats Eat Cats, Sherida, Silver, Leslie, Dhallhenn, dedanaan, Cor'lii Eroverd, Eryn S, Crystal Night, Anarade Relle, Calli Starkiller, Sathra, strangenames, Shanda27, Jormund Elver, xseikax, Suilven, MsBarrows, deagh, Shakespira, Cybrind, Naomis8329, Tyanilth, Enaid Aderyn, Judy(!), Reyavie, _(ahem) almost the entire population of Ferelden…_Roxfox1962_, who encouraged me to post that very first chapter, which was more a vague idea than an actual story at the time.

To everyone else who has simply popped in for a bit of a peek, lurked or otherwise, thank you too very much!

I hope I haven't missed anyone and if I have, apologies and cheers!

Some small notes of my own. Because I love playing around with the meaning of names and Welsh names in particular, I've tried to sneak them as much as I could in this story, especially the folk of Highever:

**Alyce** was chosen to mean 'noble' or 'of noble', hinting at her background and connection to the nobility of Kirkwall.

**Ryan**, meaning 'little king', was chosen not just for it's lovely heroic sound, but also so the heroine would have her very own prince or king (even though Neria, the Warden in this story, did not end up with King Alistair)

**Mildred**, means 'gentle strength' because she pretty much needed it, being a non-magical relative of a Mage…

**Serenna**, Mildred's elven servant companion, has a rather sweet meaning of 'composed/peaceful or cheerful' which seemed both perfect for the character's personality as well as it's resemblance to the elven word _ma serennas _for 'thank you'.

**Greagoir, **I blame Bioware for choosing this name meaning 'watchful' for the Knight Commander. As baby Greagoir had been such a champion starer, I couldn't resist! And not to mention…the odds of the _Knight Commander _popping a vein on discovering the god baby had the same.

Ser **Gavin**, the Tremayne patriarch has a meaning of 'white warrior' for his crop of white hair and his former association with the Order of Templars.

**Asla** took a bit of research. I can't recall how long I agonised over naming Ser Ryan's mother's name. She went through a few until I'd found this one which sounded exotic enough to suit that Nevarran background. Some say it's of middle-eastern origin, given to women of great beauty, others a male Nordic name and others, an ancient form of 'Alice,' which also seemed a nice symmetry for Ryan to have with his own Alyce.

And **Geraint**, one of my favourite names is of course, one of King Arthur's knights of legend. He's the dude that after getting hitched, had his devotion to the knighthood thrown into question and went on a bit of a quest to prove himself. So did young Geraint the blacksmith, though I understand _Sir _Geraint was a tad more successful in his.

Lastly in this list, the word Ser Ryan uses to address Alyce as a term of endearment; '_cariad'_ is Welsh for 'beloved' (or 'darling'), a name my own half-Welsh husband tried. Once…and got twisty-face as a result. And so never used it again.

Luckily for him.

And my usual fangirly homages to some favourites I've squeezed in here and there from the wonderful and Great Ser Terry Pratchett, through _Harry Potter_ ('ate a funny whelk') right the way through to the _Octonauts _('buncha muncha crunchy carrots' – I love Tweak. Who wouldn't love a bright green bunny?)

Finally, thanks to Bioware for creating such an immersive world and allowing us all to kick some sand around in it.

Cheers everyone!

Champion The Wonder Snail.

-oo-


End file.
